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MAUD  CHURTON  BRABY 


EX 


300  E 


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DOWNWARD: 

A  "SLICE  OF  LIFE" 

By 

MAUD  CHURTON 
BRABY 

Author  of  "  Modern  Marriage  and 
How  to  Bear  It" 

NEW    YORK 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 
1913 

COPYRIGHT.  1912.  BT 
WILUAM  RICKEY  A  COMPANY 


THE  SCHILLING  PRESS.  NEW  YORK 


TO   MY    HUSBAITO 

PERCY  BBABY 

"Brilliant,  and  brave,  and  kind." 

(W.  B.  Henley.) 

« Never 

For   thee   the   lowered  banner,   the   lost   endeavour  I* 

(Fiona  Macleod.) 


DOWNWARD: 

A  "Slice  of  Life  " 


PART  I 
I 

THE  setting  sun  flooded  the  bedroom  in  a  little  white 
house  in  a  Fulham  side-street  where  Valerie  Fitzgerald 
lay  dying.  "The  Actress  at  Number  Five"  the  neigh- 
bours called  her.  Nobody  knew  her  to  speak  to  though 
she  had  lived  there  longer  than  any  of  the  others. 

Her  arrivals  and  departures  at  the  little  white  house, 
always  on  Sundays,  in  a  cab  piled  high  with  huge  dress 
baskets,  accompanied  by  her  young  daughter,  had  been  a 
topic  of  unfailing  interest  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  other 
little  white  houses.  "What  a  life!"  had  been  the  usual 
comment  of  censorious  housewives.  Discontented  daugh 
ters  gazing  wistfully  from  parlour  windows  had  defended 
the  life  as  "at  least  exciting."  Tolerant  fathers  and 
enthusiastic  sons  had  watched  the  arrivals  and  departures 
with  unconcealed  interest,  from  the  vantage  ground  of 
their  front  garden-plots.  "There's  a  woman  who  knows 
the  world!"  the  fathers  were  wont  to  say,  in  a  voice  thai 
was  meant  to  express  a  vast  similar  knowledge  on  their 
own  part,  whilst  the  sons  involuntarily  pulled  down 
waistcoats  and  fingered  ties,  as  they  leant — elegantly, 
they  hoped — over  the  diminutive  wooden  gates  labelled 
"Blenheim,"  "Clovelly,"  or  "  Ken il worth,"  as  the  case 
might  be.  All  the  male  inhabitants  of  the  road  admired 
"the  Actress,"  but  they  unanimously  characterized  her 
daughter  as  "a  minx." 

1 


2  DOWNWARD 

Dolly,  at  fifteen,  with  her  trim  waist,  her  jaunty  car- 
riage, flaunting  golden  hair  and  bold  blue  eyes,  was 
certainly  a  figure  to  cause  anxious  mothers  of  sons 
uneasiness,  and  they  were  glad  the  little  house  was  shut 
up  so  often,  and  that  none  of  them  were  acquainted  with 
the  theatrical  folk  at  Number  Five.  They  would  not  own 
to  themselves  that  there  would  be  no  need  to  worry  in 
any  case,  since  Dolly  seemed  oblivious  even  of  the  exist- 
ence of  their  boys.  Secretly  they  resented  this  fact  and 
were  apt  to  murmur  "Hussy !"  when  observing,  from  the 
parlour  windows  as  usual,  that  George  or  Albert's  strik- 
ing attitude  at  the  front  gate,  and  the  sudden  fit  of 
refined  coughing  that  invariably  seized  these  youths  at 
Dolly's  approach,  passed  entirely  unnoticed  by  the 
actress's  daughter.  And  "the  street  might  belong  to 
her!"  George  and  Albert  would  mutter,  as  they  turned 
disconsolately  away,  casting  from  them  the  flower  they 
had  hoped  for  an  opportunity  to  offer. 

Poor  little  Dolly  did  not  look  much  of  a  minx  now  as 
she  drew  the  blinds  to  let  the  sun's  last  rays  fall  on  her 
mother's  face.  Untidy  and  weary,  her  blue  eyes  pitifully 
dimmed  with  weeping,  her  splendid  hair  tangled  and 
neglected — even  the  censorious  neighbours  would  have 
pitied  the  child  now,  stricken  by  the  weight  of  her  first 
real  grief. 

"That  better,  Mums?"  she  asked,  fastening  the  blind, 
and  her  voice  was  so  full  of  misery  that  it  struck  on  the 
fading  senses  of  the  dying  woman. 

"Is  my  little  girl  very  tired?"  Valerie  asked.  "You 
promised  me  you  would  go  to  bed  last  night." 

"Well,  I  did  sleep,  darling,  in  the  chair  here;  I 
couldn't  leave  you." 

' '  But  I  have  nurse,  child,  and  you  run  about  so  much 
for  me  during  the  day." 

"Yes,  but  my  room  seemed  so  far  away,  and — and  if 
anything  ....  Oh,  Mums !  let  me  stay  with  you  as  long 
as  1  can."  She  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  now,  and  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  quilt  to  stifle  the  sobs  that  would 
not  be  denied. 


DOWNWARD  8 

The  actress'  trembling  hand  groped  its  way  along 
the  bed  and  found  the  bowed  head  of  her  child.  Her 
thin  fingers  rested  lovingly  on  the  bright  hair. 

"Don't  cry,  my  darling,"  she  whispered;  "I  can't 
bear  your  tears,  child — anything  but  that!"  Dolly 
jumped  up,  threw  back  her  hair  and  dashed  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  with  one  of  her  quick,  vital  gestures. 

"I'm  not  crying,"  she  said,  brightly.  "It's  time  for 
your  medicine,  and  you  haven't  had  any  nourishment,  as 
nurse  calls  it,  for  quite  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  What 
would  the  doctor  think !  He  said  every  half-hour  without 
fail.  I'll  get  you  some  milk." 

"I'd  better  have  champagne,"  said  Valerie.  "I  want 
to  feel  strong  for  a  little  while.  I've  a  great  deal  to  say 
to  you,  Dolly,  and " 

"There  isn't  much  time  now/'  she  had  meant  to  say. 
It  was  so  plainly  true ;  the  shadow  of  death  lay  unmis- 
takably on  Valerie.  As  she  lay  raised  on  her  pillows,  her 
face  looked  more  wan  still  in  contrast  with  the  frame  of 
bright  gold  hair,  her  chief  beauty,  and  the  only  point  in 
which  her  child  resembled  her.  Dolly 's  face,  with  its  rich 
tints  and  curves,  full  red  lips  and  fair  skin,  was  entirely 
different  from  the  pale,  thin,  spiritual  countenance  of  her 
mother.  A  beautiful  passionate  soul  looked  out  of 
Valerie 's  sombre  dark  eyes.  Their  depths  held  a  tragedy, 
repeated  in  the  thin  curve  of  her  embittered  mouth.  She 
was  lined  beyond  her  thirty-seven  years,  for  her  skin  was 
of  the  kind  that  does  not  take  cosmetics  well,  and  years 
of  stage  make-up  had  raddled  her  delicate  face  sadly ;  but 
her  great  personal  charm  was  apparent  even  in  her  pres- 
ent physical  extremity. 

Dolly  had  fetched  the  half-pint  bottle  of  champagne 
from  the  pile  stacked  on  the  landing,  ready  for  sick-room 
use.  Deftly  she  opened  it  and  helped  her  mother  to 
slowly  sip  the  required  quantity.  She  turned  the  pillow 
tenderly,  refilled  the  ice-bag  for  the  invalid's  head,  and 
at  her  request  placed  a  large  lump  of  ice  wrapped  in  a 
handkerchief  in  her  mother's  thin  hand. 

Then  the  girl  climbed  on  the  bed  and  with  her  eyes 


4  DOWNWARD 

fixed  devouringly  on  her  mother's  face  waited  for  Valerie 
to  speak. 

' '  Was  it  six  o  'clock  that  struck,  Dolly  ?  Is  it  morning 
or  evening?" 

"It's  evening,  the  sun's  just  disappearing,  you  see.  I 
hear  the  bath  filling;  nurse  must  be  getting  up." 

Hungry  eyes  turned  towards  their  last  earthly  glimpse 
of  the  sun. 

"How  I  have  loved  the  sun  in  my  life!  The  dear, 
wonderful,  comforting  sun!"  Valerie  said,  wistfully. 
Her  voice  was  a  little  stronger.  She  turned  to  her  daugh- 
ter. "I  want  you  alone,  my  girlie;  nurse  needn't  hurry. 
When — when  it's  all  over,  Dolly,  you  must  leave  every- 
thing to  nurse.  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that  for  me — 
you're  too  young." 

Dolly  shuddered.  "Yes,  mother,"  she  said,  with  an 
effort. 

"And  you're  not  to  go  to  your  room  and  cry.  Promise 
me,  child." 

"I'll  try." 

"I  want  you,  at  once,  you  understand,  to  go  and 
bathe  your  eyes,  do  your  hair  nicely,  put  on  your  blue 
coat  and  skirt  and  the  blue  hat — make  yourself  very 
neat,  mind — then  get  a  cab  and  go  straight  to  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton." 

"The  lawyer,  mother?    But  he's  dead,  you  told  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  old  man  whom  you  knew  is  dead,  but  his 
son  is  head  of  the  firm  now — Dacre  Hamilton.  You  know 
the  address — 5  Old  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Send 
in  your  name,  say  it's  urgent,  and  tell  the  clerk  you 
can't  be  kept  waiting  .  .  .  then  tell  Mr.  Hamilton  what 
has  happened." 

"Yes,  mother."  The  young  voice  sounded  a  shade 
brighter;  these  mysterious  directions  seemed  to  promise 
excitement. 

"You  know  the  pale  blue  satin  box  which  I  keep 
wrapped  up  in  the  ottoman ;  you  've  often  asked  for  it. ' ' 

' '  I  know ;  I  've  wanted  it  for  a  long  time. ' ' 

"It's  not  for  you,  child.    I  made  it  fifteen  years  ago, 


DOWNWARD  5 

just  before  you  were  born.  It  is  needed  now  at  last.  .  .  . 
You  must  cut  off  my  plaits,  close  to  the  head " 

' '  Oh,  mother,  your  lovely  hair ! ' ' 

"I  shan't  want  it  any  more,  dear.  Cut  it  off  and  put 
it  in  the  blue  box;  take  it  to  Dacre  Hamilton.  .  .  .  Don't 
ask  any  questions  and  do  exactly  as  he  tells  you.  Exactly, 
you  understand,  child?" 

"Y — yes,  mother." 

"Obey  him  in  everything — do  as  he  tells  you — go 
where  he  arranges." 

"But  where,  mother?  We've  no  relations — surely  I 
may  stay  here?  Isn't  this  house  yours?  You've  always 
told  me  so !" 

"Yes,  you  were  born  in  this  house,  as  you  know,  and 
ever  since  it  has  been  mine — but  only  for  my  lifetime. 
You  will  not  be  allowed  to  stay  here. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  mother !  We  've  always  loved  the  dear  little  house 
— so  different  from  the  horrid  lodgings  on  tour!  Oh, 
mother,  is  everything  to  be  taken  from  me  at  once  ?  Then 
where  am  I  to  go?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  darling."  Valerie's  low  voice  was 
full  of  unbearable  pain.  "I  wish  to  God  I  did,  but  I 
never  thought  to  die  so  soon.  Nothing  has  been  settled ;  I 
thought  I  would  live  to  see  you  married  and  independent. 
You  know  how  sudden  my  illness  has  been.  I  let  Mr. 
Hamilton  know  as  soon  as  I  heard  it  was  hopeless,  and  he 
has  written  and  written " 

' '  Who  to,  mother  ?    Who 's  he  written  to  ? " 

"To  the  trustees  of  ...  your  father." 

"Father!"  Dolly  almost  screamed  in  her  excitement. 
That  forbidden  name — source  of  so  many  mysterious 
imaginings!  "And  haven't  they  answered?" 

"Mr.  Hamilton  says  not." 

"What  brutes!"  said  the  girl,  impetuously.  "Oh, 
Mums,  why  didn't  you  write?" 

"Because  ...  I  may  not,"  breathed  Valerie  almost 
inaudibly.  "You  mustn't  question  me,  child — it's  so 
hard  to  speak  at  all,  and  I've  so  much  to  say  still.  Do 
whatever  Mr.  Hamilton  says ;  you  can  trust  him,  though 


«  DOWNWARD 

he's  young  he'll  advise  you  well.  His  father  has  been  a 
good  friend  to  me,  and  remember,  Dolly — never  forget 
this — if  you  disobey  the  trustees,  they  will  do  nothing  for 
you;  you  will  get  no  money,  no  protection." 

"Can  trustees  do  things  like  that?" 

"Mine  can,"  said  Valerie,  very  bitterly,  and  her  whole 
life's  tragedy  seemed  expressed  in  those  words. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

She  lay  quiet,  ghastly — with  shut  eyes.  Dolly,  momen- 
tarily unmindful  of  her  mother,  was  thinking — miserably 
resentful — of  what  she  had  just  heard. 

"Mother,"  she  burst  out  suddenly,  "tell  me  about  my 
father !  Do,  do  tell  me,  mother.  Who  was  he  ?  You  are 
the  only  one  that  knows.  ...  I  want  to  know  so  fright- 
fully badly,  and  no  one  will  ever  tell  me  if  you  don't. 
Oh,  mother,  don't  refuse  now!" 

Valerie  opened  her  eyes,  and  they  blazed  on  her  child ; 
her  look  was  like  the  flash  of  swords.  Seeing  it,  Dolly 
shrank  back  to  the  bed-post ;  she  expected  angry  words  to 
rush  from  her  mother's  lips,  but  after  a  minute's  silence 
Valerie  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  her  voice  came  quietly, 
wearily. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  you,  child.  You  know  it  all. 
I  worshipped  your  father  ;-he  left  me,  after  three  years  of 
wonderful  happiness,  before  you  were  born,  and  he  is 
dead  now.  His  will  provided  this  house  and  enough  for 
us  to  live  on  in  comfort,  with  what  I  can  earn.  That's 
all." 

Dolly's  rush  of  questions  was  checked  by  the  look  of 
utter  exhaustion  on  her  mother's  face.  She  was  afraid  to 
ask  anything  more.  Presently  Valerie  spoke  again,  very 
gently. 

"Darling,  don't  torment  me  with  those  questions  now. 
You  know  how  it  vexes  me.  Don't  talk  or  argue  at  all — 
only  listen.  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  my  poor  little  girl. 
Mother  will  soon  be  gone.  .  .  .  Kneel  quietly  by  me  and 
listen  so  that  I  need  only  whisper.  .  .  . 

"I  hate  to  leave  you,  my  baby.  It's  so  hard — if  only  I 
could  have  livsd  another  five  years  and  seen  you  a 


DOWNWARD  7 

woman !  I  'm  afraid  for  you — the  world  is  so  cruel  and 
yours  is  just  the  nature  that  will  stretch  out  both  hands 
for  the  beauty  and  colour  of  life.  .  .  . 

"You  know  about  my  girlhood — how  harsh  and  hard 
my  parents  were,  and  how  they  seemed  to  think  all  joy 
wrong,  and  taught  me  to  hate  religion,  because  of  the 
misery  they  made  it  mean  for  me.  You  know  how  I  ran 
away  at  seventeen  and  went  on  the  stage.  I  never  had  a 
chance,  Dolly,  and  when  you  came  to  me  I  meant  your 
life  to  be  very  different.  Perhaps  I've  indulged  you  too 
much,  but  I  was  so  anxious  that  you  should  have  all  the 
gaiety  and  laughter  I  had  missed.  Sometimes  I  think 
I've  been  mistaken." 

Valerie  gazed  anxiously  at  her  daughter's  face.  Young 
as  she  was,  it  was  even  now  the  face  of  a  Circe — her  lips 
were  siren's  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  plainly  destined  to 
give  men  dreams. 

"Sometimes  I  think  a  harsher  rule  might  have  been 
better  for  you — there  is  not  much  of  me  in  you.  You 
haven't  had  the  right  environment,  after  all,  my  darl- 
ing," the  mother  went  on,  sadly.  "I  know  it  now; 
touring  theatrical  companies  are  no  place  for  young  girls. 
You've  learnt  much  you  would  have  been  better  without, 
poor  child,  though  I've  always  tried  to  be  particular 
about  my  engagements  for  your  sake.  But  you  always 
hated  the  schools  we  tried,  and  you  were  all  I  had — all ! 
I  couldn't  bear  to  be  parted  from  you.  We  have  loved 
each  other,  haven't  we,  little  daughter?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  Mummy!"  The  stifled  voice  was  full 
of  anguish. 

"It  grieves  me  now  to  think  how  little  education  you 
have  had,"  Valerie  lamented. 

Up  went  Dolly's  head  instantly.  "Mother !  I've  learnt 
a  lot  of  useful  things — why,  you  always  say  I'm  a  splen- 
did cook  and  a  good  nurse,  and  what  I  don't  know  about 
travelling  wouldn  't  go  on  a  burnt  match  end ' ' — she  flung 
out  the  pantomime  catch-word  proudly — "and  look  how 
well  I  can  pack!  and  Gus  Huntley  always  said  I  could 


8  DOWNWARD 

make  a  better  bargain  with  a  landlady  than  any  low-corn, 
on  the  road." 

Valerie  winced,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  her  old  whim- 
sical humour  in  her  reply.  ' '  Oh,  what  would  my  father 
have  said  to  his  granddaughter's  notion  of  accomplish- 
ments ! ' ' 

"But  then — my  dancing,  too  .  .  ."  said  Dolly, 
proudly. 

' '  Yes,  dear,  you  are  a  wonderful  dancer ;  they  thought 
a  lot  of  your  talent  at  the  Berlin  place.  I've  spent  a 
great  deal  of  money  on  your  training  already,  and  I 
promised  you  singing  lessons  when  you  were  sixteen, 
didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Dolly,  eagerly. 

Valerie's  voice  was  getting  fainter.  "Mr.  Hamilton 
will  do  his  best.  It  all  depends  on  ....  If  they  don't 
let  you  go  on  the  stage  after  all,  you  must  be  good  and 
bear  it,  or  they  will  forsake  you.  Dolly,  I  can 't  bear  to 
think  of  your  having  to  face  the  world  without  money 
as  I  did.  A  little  money  makes  all  the  difference  to  a 
girl  alone.  Promise  me  once  more — promise  me  faith- 
fully, Dolly,  that  whatever  happens  you  won 't  go  against 
him." 

"Against  the  trustee?" 

' '  Yes — promise. ' ' 

"I  promise,  mother." 

"Whatever  happens?" 

"Whatever  happens,"  said  Dolly,  solemnly. 

Valerie  gave  a  sigh  of  content.  ' '  Thank  you,  darling ; 
I  want  to  sleep  now,  I'm  so  very  tired." 

"Yes,  do  sleep  a  little." 

' '  No,  no,  I  mustn  't  yet,  I  've  still  so  much  to  say,  I  don 't 
seem  to  get  on  with  it  at  all, ' '  she  added,  fretfully.  .  .  . 
"Listen,  Dolly,  kneel  by  me.  Let  me  hold  your  dear  face 
in  my  hand;  how  smooth  your  cheek  is,  my  beautiful 
little  girl!  You'll  remember  I  like  you  to  dress  quietly, 
dear  ....  and  don't  look  about  you  in  the  streets 
I've  often  had  to  tell  you  that,  you  know  .  .  .  and  never 
let  a  man  take  you  to  a  private  room  in  a  restaurant." 


DOWNWARD  9 

"Of  course  not,  mother,  I  know  better  than  that!'* 

"And  never  have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  who 
doesn't  treat  you  respectfully.  .  .  .  Dolly,  be  careful  of 
men ;  you  are  of  coarser  fibre  than  I.  ...  a  girl  like  you 
can't  be  too  careful.  Be  careful  of  love,  my  daughter, 
it's  so  cruel.  Some  day  you  are  sure  to  meet  men  who 
will  talk  to  you  about  the  necessity  for  obeying  'Nature's 
law.'  But  remember,  dear,  it  isn't  safe  to  trust  Nature's 
laws  when  they  conflict  with  man's  laws.  Even  God's 
law  doesn't  seem  to  count — it  is  by  man's  laws  we  are 
judged  and  by  man's  laws  we  are  punished.  ...  So  be 
careful  of  love,  Dolly.  Be  cautious,  be  mean  even.  Only 
count  the  cost,  count  the  cost!  Don't  be  too  ready  to 
give.  .  .  .  but  oh  !  you  will,  you  will !" — her  voice  was  a 
moan — "I  know  you  will;  you  are  his  child — his  child!" 

"I  won't,  Mums,  I  really  won't!"  murmured  the  girl, 
soothingly. 

"Don't,  don't,  my  Dolly!  One  gives  all — hardly 
understanding — and  it  is  so  terrible  when  one  has  lost 
all."  Her  voice  trailed  away,  her  mind  seemed  wander- 
ing. Dolly  just  caught  the  whisper,  "My  poor  little 
girl  .  .  .  my  poor  little  girl  left  alone.  .  .  .  Beloved,  how 
cruel  you  have  been  to  me  ...  how  bitterly  cruel !  Why 
did  you  leave  me?  It  has  been  so  long — so  long !" 

Dolly  rushed  to  the  door,  her  heart  pounding.  "Nurse, 
nurse,  quick!  Mother  .  .  .  quick,  the  morphia!" 

The  nurse  flew  in,  half-dressed,  felt  the  patient's  pulse, 
and  then  with  incredible  swiftness  seized  the  hypodermic 
noedle  from  its  ease,  plunged  it  in  the  basin  of  disinfec- 
tant and  administered  it.  Dolly,  scarcely  daring  to 
breathe,  saw  her  mother  quicken  to  life  again,  and 
resumed  her  place  kneeling  at  the  bedside.  The  nurse, 
after  watching  anxiously  for  a  few  moments,  sped  out  of 
the  room  as  quickly  as  she  had  come,  to  finish  her  toilet. 

"Lift  up  your  head,  Dolly,  look  at  me,"  whispered 
Valerie,  and  she  gazed  tenderly  at  the  young  face,  lovely 
even  in  its  grief.  "When  you're  alone,  child,  you'll 
remember  the  few  quarrels  we've  had,  all  your  little 
naughtinesses  and  disobediences,  all  the  sharp  words 


10  DOWNWARD 

You'll  be  miserable  and  torment  yourself.  People 
always  do  that,  but  I  want  you  to  think  only  of  the  happy 
times — the  laughter  and  the  friendship  and  the  love. 
Remember  all  you  were  to  me,  my  darling;  you've  been 
my  life  ever  since  you  were  born — never  forget  that 
mother  said  so  when  she  was  dying.  There  is  no  one  in 
the  world  to  a  woman  like  the  little  girl-child  who  will 
on*  day  understand,  as  no  husband  or  son  ever  can.  .  .  . 
My  own  little  daughter  ...  no  wonder  you're  beautiful, 
my  Dolly — such  passion  and  pain  and  rapture  have  gone 
to  your  fashioning  .  .  . 

"Don't  cry,  sweet  .  .  .  your  eyes  are  so  like  his  .  .  . 
80  like !  Kiss  me  once  more.  You  are  so  tired,  baby ;  lie 
down  by  mother  on  the  bed  ...  as  so  many  times 
before,  and  well  rest  together/' 

Worn  out,  her  heavy  eyes  half  closing  every  minute, 
Dolly  gladly  stretched  herself  by  her  mother's  side.  Their 
hands  were  clasped,  the  two  golden  heads  lay  close  to- 
gether. 

There  was  silence. 

The  nurse  came  and  ministered  to  the  sick  woman  once 
more,  anxiously  feeling  her  pulse  again. 

Presently  Valerie  spoke  again,  and  her  voice  was  loud 
and  strong.  "God  in  heaven,  I  have  paid!"  she  cried. 
"Deal  tenderly  with  my  little  child.  Be  good  to  my  little 
child.  I  have  paid." 

"My  dear,  do  let  me  send  for  a  clergyman,"  urged  the 
nurse,  evidently  not  for  the  first  time. 

"/  have  paid!"  said  Valerie. 

Those  were  the  last  words  Dolly  heard  her  mother 
speak.  Heavy  sleep  overcame  her  almost  at  once.  The 
nurse  watched  while  Valerie  too  slept  the  night  through. 
She  did  not  speak  again,  except  just  before  she  died  at 
eight  o  'clock  in  the  morning,  the  single  word  : 

"You!" 


AT  nine  o'clock,  Dolly — ready  for  her  expedition — re- 
entered  her  mother's  room.  The  last  offices  had  been 
performed  by  the  nurse,  who  was  now  busy  tidying. 
Without  a  word  she  complied  with  the  girl's  request  to  be 
left  alone. 

When  the  door  shut  Dolly  went  first  to  the  windows 
and  drew  up  all  the  blinds  to  their  uttermost.  The  bright 
morning  sunshine  streamed  upon  the  dead. 

' '  She  loved  the  sun, ' '  said  the  girl  aloud. 

It  did  not  take  her  long  to  find  the  box,  which  she  had 
so  often  begged  for  her  doll's  clothes,  and  later  for  her 
collection  of  theatrical  programmes.  Then  solemnly  she 
approached  the  bed,  marvelling  at  the  miracle  of  death 
which  had  already  smoothed  out  all  the  lines,  all  the  grief 
and  bitterness,  from  her  mother's  face.  Valerie's  hair 
was  divided  into  two  great  plaits,  which  came  over  her 
shoulders  and  lay  along  the  straight  figure,  nearly  touch- 
ing the  knees,  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  to 
cut  the  mass  in  a  single  plait,  except  with  a  knife,  and  it 
was  only  with  difficulty  that  Dolly  slowly  severed  the  two 
ropes  of  hair. 

"It  does  seem  a  dreadful  thing  to  do,"  she  whispered 
to  herself,  and  her  tears  streamed  down  onto  the  bright 
hair,  as  she  replaited  it  into  one  huge  twist,  tying  it  at 
either  end. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  box  lay  an  envelope  of  the  thin, 
bluish  paper  her  mother  always  used.  It  bore  no  inscrip- 
tion and  contained  apparently  a  single  sheet  of  paper. 
At  the  back  it  was  sealed  in  two  places  with  Valerie's  seal. 

Dolly  resisted  the  fierce  temptation  to  open  this  en- 
velope and  went  on  reverently  with  her  task. 
11 


12  DOWNWARD 

For  whom  could  this  parcel  be  destined  ?  the  girl  asked 
herself;  she  knew  of  no  likely  recipient.  It  might  have 
been  for  her  father,  but  he  was  dead.  .  .  .  Was  he  dead, 
she  wondered?  Her  mother  had  always  said  so.  It  was 
very  mysterious !  The  somewhat  theatrical  aspect  of  this 
strange  business  did  not  strike  her — she  was  accustomed 
to  live  in  a  more  or  less  dramatic  atmosphere.  .  .  .  But 
she  did  wonder  where  the  packet  would  be  sent. 

"You're  not  going  out,  surely!"  exclaimed  the  nurse, 
on  the  landing. 

"Mother  told  me  to;  I'm  going  on  her  business." 
As  Dolly  sped  down  the  garden  path  she  heard, 
through  the  open  windows  of  the  front  room,  the  nurse's 
horrified  exclamation  at  the  drawn  blinds,  followed  by  a 
shriek  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  despoiled  head  of  the  dead 
woman. 


Ill 

DACRE  HAMILTON  had  been  blessed  by  nature  with  a 
countenance  that  matched  most  excellently  with  the  pro- 
fession of  his  choice.  His  clever,  refined  face,  shrewd 
hazel  eyes  and  determined  chin  were  calculated  to  inspire 
confidence  in  the  most  suspicious  client,  whilst  his  fine 
chiselled  profile  and  well-cut  lips  caused  him  to  find 
favour  with  even  the  least  impressionable  of  the  women 
who  consulted  him.  His  face  was  habitually  stern,  but 
sometimes  a  wonderful  glow  would  soften  those  piercing 
eyes.  "With  women  he  had  a  charmingly  kind  and  gentle 
mariner  that  would  have  surprised  those  who  knew  his 
fame  as  a  pitiless  cross-examiner  of  luckless  bankrupts. 
His  staff  trembled  at  and  adored  him.  At  thirty  he  was 
the  head  of  the  firm  started  by  his  father,  but  which  owed 
most  of  its  success  to  himself.  Austere  of  countenance, 
sparing  of  speech,  his  passion  for  work  was  his  strongest 
characteristic. 

It  was  his  professional  habit  to  keep  every  one  waiting 
at  least  half  an  hour,  to  see  no  new  client  without  an 
introduction,  and  not  the  most  important  of  clients  with- 
out an  appointment.  Nevertheless,  Dolly  was  imme- 
diately ushered  into  his  private  room  on  that  Saturday 
morning,  although  his  own  arrival  had  preceded  hers  by 
but  a  few  moments. 

As  she  entered  he  came  quickly  forward,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

"You're  Dolly?  I  can  guess  what  has  happened,"  he 
said,  before  she  could  speak.  ' '  Sit  down.  Poor  child,  I 
am  very,  very  sorry. ' ' 

The  effect  of  this  greeting  was  to  cause  Dolly  to  burst 
iuddenly  into  hysterical  tears.  Kind  words  are  often 
13 


14  DOWNWARD 

more  upsetting  than  harsh  ones.  She  leaned  her  head  on 
the  large  desk  and  sobbed  wildly. 

In  no  way  disconcerted,  the  lawyer  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  leaving  the  girl  to  have 
her  cry  out.  Then,  drawing  up  his  large  swing-chair,  he 
sat  down  close  beside  her  and  took  her  hand  firmly  in  his 
own. 

"I'm  your  friend,  remember,"  he  said,  and  Dolly — 
feeling  that  strong,  kindly  clasp — experienced  a  strange 
lifting  of  heart.  She  raised  her  head  and  began  to  wipe 
her  burning  eyes. 

"How  much  does  she  know?"  he  was  wondering. 
"When  was  itf "  he  asked  aloud. 

"Nurse  woke  me  at  eight,  and  said  mother  was  dead. 
I  was  asleep  on  her  bed." 

"What  made  you  come  so  soon?"  he  asked,  gently. 

"Mother  told  me  to — last  night.  She  said  I  was  to  go 
directly — after,  and  to  bring  you  this. ' ' 

The  lawyer  took  the  parcel  from  her  without  any  com- 
ment and  put  it  on  one  side. 

"Ha,  that's  strange!"  he  said,  smoothing  his  clean- 
shaven chin  perplexedly,  "because,  you  see,  I  can  do 
nothing  until  I  have  heard  from  .  .  .  er,  your  mother's 
executors.  But  perhaps — ah!  yes,  that's  it,  of  course — 
she  meant  it  purposely  to  give  you  something  to  occupy 
yourself  with — the  journey  here  and  all  that." 

' '  That  would  be  just  like  mother ;  she  thought  of  every- 
thing." Tears  struggled  in  Dolly's  voice,  but  were 
mastered ;  it  was  nice  to  have  a  sympathetic,  interested 
listener,  after  these  sad,  horrible  weeks.  She  found  her- 
self talking  in  her  old,  easy,  rushing  way. 

"Mother  told  me  once  that  when  she  heard  of  her 
favourite  uncle's  death  she  rushed  into  the  little  village 
shop  and  bought  two  penny  novelettes  and  a  basket  of 
raspberries,  and  then  sat  in  a  field  near  and  read  the 
novelette*  and  ate  the  raspberries  as  quick  as  she  could, 
crying  all  the  time.  She  ate  all  the  animals  in  the  rasp- 
berries for  once,  but  it  served  to  take  her  thoughts  a 
little  off  her  loss." 


DOWNWARD  15 

Dacre  smiled  his  rare  kindly  smile,  and  Dolly  found 
she  could  still  smile  too,  albeit  wanly. 

"And  now  I  must  write  to  your  mother's  executors 
before  I  can  make  any  arrangements  for  you,"  he  said. 

"Executors?    Mother  told  me  they  were  trustees." 

"It's  all  the  same.  ...  I  have  to  get  my  instructions 
from  them." 

The  girl's  eyes  narrowed.  Should  she  question  this 
kind,  clever  man,  as  she  had  so  often  questioned  her 
mother,  eliciting  nothing.  She  decided  to  leave  it  for  the 
present. 

"Has  mother  made  a  will,  Mr.  Hamilton?" 

"Er  .  .  .  no,  she  has  not.  All  her  personal  possessions 
— clothes,  jewellery  and  furniture — go  to  you,  as  a  matter 
of  course." 

' ' Furniture ! "  A  vague  feeling  of  her  own  importance 
stirred  in  Dolly's  feminine  heart.  "But  I  have  to  leave 
the  dear  little  house;  mother  said  so." 

"Oh,  she  told  you  that?  Yes,  I  fear  so.  But,  as 
regards  money,  all  depends  on  the  trustees. ' '  The  lawyer 
was  relieved  that  this  vague,  legal-sounding  word  seemed 
to  satisfy  Dolly  and  that  she  did  not  press  with  the 
obvious  question. 

"  So  it  would  have  been  useless  for  your  mother  to  make 
a  will.  As  soon  as  1  have  my  instructions,  you  must  come 
and  see  me  again.  Or,  wait  a  bit,  you  live  in  Fulham, 
don't  you?  I  motor  every  evening  along  the  Fulham 
Road,  on  my  way  home — I  live  in  the  country,  you  see. 
Shall  I  call  on  you  one  evening  about  half -past  six  ?  It  '11 
save  time,  as  you're  anxious." 

Dolly  had  awakened  the  lawyer's  kindliest  expression 
during  the  interview,  but  when  she  had  gone  his  face 
was  unusually  stern,  as  he  stood  by  his  desk  .  .  . 
thinking. 

"What  a  lovely  girl !  What  a  heU  she  will  find  it 

I'm  glad  I  haven't  got  that  crime  on  my  soul." 

He  rang  the  bell  for  his  telephone  clerk,  and  bade  him 
first  send  for  a  district  messenger  boy  and  then  "get 
through"  to  a  certain  Paddington  number.  Next  he  pro- 


16  DOWNWARD 

ceeded  to  write  an  address  label  and  to  fasten  it  on  the 
parcel  Dolly  had  left. 

If  Dolly  could  but  have  seen  that  label  and  heard  that 
telephone  number  I 


IV 

DOLLY'S  parcel  had  lain  on  the  hall  table  of  a  large 
house  in  a  West  End  street  since  it  was  delivered  by  hand 
about  eleven  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning.  It  was  Mon- 
day night  before  the  owner  of  the  house  returned  from 
a  week-end  out  of  town  and  took  the  packet,  with  the 
accumulated  pile  of  correspondence,  into  bis  study.  He 
opened  a  telegram  or  two,  and  then  the  handwriting  on 
the  label  arrested  his  attention.  "What  can  Hamilton 
be  sending  me?"  he  thought,  carelessly  cutting  the  string. 

The  box  that  Valerie  had  made  before  Dolly's  birth 
was  revealed  to  view.  Uneasily  the  man  raised  the  lid. 
Below,  in  its  azure  bed  of  shining  satin,  lay  the  mag- 
nificent gold  plait  of  Valerie's  hair. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  and  for  a  moment  sat  as 
one  stunned.  Then,  with  a  gesture  of  rage,  he  flung  box 
and  all  into  the  empty  fender. 

The  plait — so  like  a  living  thing — rolled  out,  and  the 
envelope  was  revealed. 

He  tore  it  open,  his  fingers  trembling  as  he  noted  the 
familiar  seal. 

Inside,  in  Valerie's  dashing  handwriting,  was  written  : 

"Beloved, 

"You  used  to  love  my  hair  so.  You  once  said  you 
wanted  to  be  buried  with  it.  By  the  time  you  read  this, 
I  shall  have  no  more  use  for  it.  Our  daughter  is  sending 
it  you  in  case  you  have  not  forgotten.  Her  hair  is  the 
same,  but  she  has  your  blue  eyes.  I  charge  you  not  to  let 
harm  befall  her. 

"VALERIE." 

17 


18  DOWNWARD 

The  plait  of  hair  lying  in  the  fireplace  drew  him  irre- 
sistibly. He  picked  it  up  and  buried  his  face  in  it  with  a 
moan.  The  subtle  perfume,  so  well  remembered,  stung 
him  more  even  than  the  sight  of  the  hair.  Sixteen,  seven- 
teen, eighteen  years  rolled  away,  and  the  burning  mem- 
ories of  his  youth's  wild  passion  crowded  thick  on  him. 
Valerie — the  one  woman!  .  .  .  Dead!  .  .  .  Dead! 
Remorse  passed,  rage  seized  him  again. 

"Damn  her!"  he  muttered,  "and  damn  the  child —  a 
thousand  times  damn  that  child ! ' '  He  flung  the  beauti- 
ful hair  on  the  fire,  where  it  seemed  to  twist  and  writhe 
in  the  flames  like  a  living  thing.  Savagely  he  seized  the 
poker  and  stirred  the  coals  until  all  the  bright  gold  had 
vanished. 

The  acrid  smell  of  burning  hair  still  hung  faintly 
about  the  room  the  next  morning  and  assailed  the  house- 
maid, who  came  to  do  the  study  grate.  She  peered 
suspiciously  about,  but  could  find  nothing  to  solve  the 
mystery.  A  torn  envelope  with  two  unbroken  seals  told 
her  nothing.  Then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  blue  satin  box 
lying  uninjured  in  the  fender,  among  the  brown  paper 
and  string  that  had  enveloped  it. 

"Master  doesn't  want  this,  that's  plain,"  said  the 
maid,  delightedly,  "and  it's  the  very  thing  to  keep 
Bertie's  letters  and  pressed  flowers  inl" 


THE  large  motor  snorting  outside  Number  Five  was 
attracting  almost  as  much  attention  in  the  road  as  had 
the  simple  funeral  procession  that  morning. 

"It's  early  days  to  be  receiving  visitors — and  gentle- 
men, too!"  the  acrimonious  spinster  Jiving  at  "Mal- 
plaquet"  had  remarked  to  the  slightly  less  intolerant 
matron  resident  at  "Blenheim."  "One  might  have 
thought  that,  minx  would  show  some  decent  feeling,  now 
of  all  times ! ' ' 

All  had  been  agreed  on  the  meanness  of  the  funeral 
"turn-out,"  but  a  few  dissentient  voices  were  now  raised 
as  to  the  indecorum  of  receiving  visitors.  After  all,  the 
minx  must  be  feeling  pretty  miserable,  and  perhaps  it 
was  a  relative,  to  be  sure.  One  kindly  critic,  with  un- 
wonted acumen,  suggested  that  it  might  be  a  lawyer. 
This  correct  guess,  however,  was  instantly  vetoed,  it 
being  held  generally  that  lawyers  "couldn't  run  to 
motors  on  their  six-and-eightpences. ' ' 

Inside  the  house,  Dolly  sat  with  a  face  of  stone,  as 
Dacre  Hamilton  propounded  his  directions  to  her,  feeling 
more  uneasy  than  he  remembered  being  since  his  exam. 

"School  for  three  years!"  she  cried  indignantly,  "and 
a  convent  school  of  all  others,  and  then  to  train  as  a 
nurse — a  nurse  of  all  things.  Me!  And  never  to  go  on 
the  stage — never  to  be  able  to  use  my  beautiful  dancing. 
Oh,  it's  cruel,  it's  devilish!  1  won't!  I  can't!" 

The  lawyer  remained  silent,  his  brows  knit. 

"Why  can't  I  go  on  the  stage?    I'd  put  up  with  the 
school,  because  I  know  I'm  ignorant,  if  only  I  could  begin 
my  stage  career  after.     I'll  gladly  work  for  my  living, 
like  mother  did,  but  why  must  it  be  in  a  hospital  ? ' ' 
19 


20  DOWNWARD 

Hamilton  wished  himself  away. 

"Well,  the  stage  is  considered  to  be  a  dangerous  life 
for  a  young  and  friendless  orphan,  and  the  security  and 
discipline  of  the  hospital  makes  it  a  safe  and  desirable 
career.  Er — it's  rather  a  brutal  world,  you  know,  for  a 
young  girl  to  get  left  in." 

"Mother  was  left — mother  had  to  struggle." 

"Exactly!  Your  trustees  want  you  to  have  a  better 
chance  than  your  mother  had — they  want  to  make  you 
safe." 

"Safe!"  echoed  Dolly,  blue  lightnings  darting  from 
her  eyes.  "Mother  was  always  talking  about  my  being 
safe,  too.  Mr.  Hamilton,  I've  gone  about  a  bit,  and  I — I 
know  things  you  know."  He  suppressed  a  smile,  think- 
ing how  glorious  her  blush  was.  "I've  seen  something 
of  the  world,"  she  continued.  "Theatrical  companies 
aren't  like  Sunday  schools.  I'm  sure  I  could  take  care 
of  myself.  I  'd  be  so  good,  so  careful. ' ' 

"My  dear  child,  it's  no  use  appealing  to  me;  I'm 
simply  a  lay  figure  bound  to  carry  out  instructions." 

"Whose  instructions?  Who  is  it  has  the  power  to  alter 
my  life — to  force  ine  into  a  profession  against  my  will?" 

"It's  the  power  of  gold,"  said  the  lawyer  sadly,  "not  a 
person.  No  living  soul  has  the  right  to  control  you,  my 
poor  child.  No  one  is  legally  responsible  for  you — you 
stand  alone.  Your  mother  made  no  will,  appointed  no 
guardian;  she  knew  it  would  be  a  farce  in  the  circum- 
stances, and  that  I  would  always  do  what  I  could  for  you, 
without  any  formal  deed.  But  I  have  no  right  to  compel 
your  obedience,  nor  has  any  one  else.  It's  all  a  matter  of 
money.  The  trustees  who  paid  your  mother  her  private 
income  during  her  lifetime  are  willing  to  do  something 
for  you,  on  certain  conditions.  Itefuse  these  conditions 
if  you  choose,  but  then  you'll  be  left  very  badly  off 
indeed. ' ' 

' '  Will  you  tell  me  exactly  what  I  would  have  ? ' ' 

"Well,  you  would  have  the  contents  of  this  house,  but 
modem  furniture  doesn't  fetch  much,  you  know,  second 
hand.  Say  under  a  hundred  pounds;  then  your  mother's 


DOWNWARD  21 

theatrical  wardrobe  would  fetch  perhaps  a  ten-pound 
note,  perhaps  more.    Her  jewellery,  if  you  cared  to  sell 

Dolly  shook  her  head.  "Mother  had  scarcely  any. 
You  see,  she  always  preferred  to  spend  money  on  me, 
and  the  things  that  were  sent  round  to  the  stage  door — 
lovely  things  sometimes — she  always  returned." 

"She  would,"  said  Hamilton.  "Well,  that's  about  a 
hundred  odd,  and  I  hold  another  hundred  invested  on 
mortgage  that  your  mother  saved  for  you." 

"A  hundred!  That's  a  lot  of  money!  Poor,  sweet 
mother,  how  she  must  have  denied  herself  for  me ! " 

"Yes,  it's  a  great  deal  for  her  to  have  saved — sur- 
rounded by  theatrical  folk  as  she  always  was.  But  it 
isn't  much  for  you  to  face  the  world  with,  Dolly.  Your 
two  hundred  pounds  won't  go  very  far.  Better  stick  to 
your  trustee  and  keep  your  money  at  the  same  time. 
You'll  get  three  years'  education,  you  see,  and  that  will 
cost  something." 

A  sudden  gleam  lit  Dolly's  sombre  face.  "Suppose  I 
have  the  education  and  then  go  my  own  way  when  I'm 
eighteen?" 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  ' '  Then  you  '11  lose 
your  allowance,  and  what's  more  important,  you'll  lose 
having  somebody  behind  you.  A  young  girl  earning  her 
living  is  hopelessly  handicapped  if  she  has  no  one  to  fall 
back  upon." 

Again  Dolly  seemed  to  hear  the  faint,  tender  voice :  "  A 
little  money  makes  all  the  difference  to  a  girl  alone.  .  .  . 
Promise  me  faithfully  that  whatever  happens  you  won't 
go  against  the  trustees." 

"1  promise,  mother." 

''Whatever  happens?" 

"Whatever  happens." 

"I  suppose  I  must,"  she  said  sullenly.  "Anyway,  I'll 
go  to  school." 

Instantly  the  lawyer  began  to  resume  his  motor-coat. 

"That's  a  good  girl,"  he  said.  "I'll  fix  it  up  as 
quickly  as  I  can — the  sooner  the  better;  it  isn't  good  for 


22  DOWNWARD 

you  to  be  here  alone.  You've  got  a  trustworthy  servant, 
haven't  you?"  He  pressed  her  hand  kindly.  "You 
won't  find  school  so  bad.  I  must  motor  down  and  see 
you  sometimes  on  Sundays.  Good-bye,  look  on  me  as  a 
friend." 

Left  alone,  Dolly  remembered  she  had  found  out  noth- 
ing, nor  even  tried  to.  She  sat  down  wretchedly  in  the 
little  drawing-room  which  her  mother's  taste  had  made 
so  charming.  .  .  .  How  terrible  it  was  to  be  alone !  The 
house  was  so  still,  not  a  sound  came  even  from  the  little 
kitchen  where  the  old  servant  was  resting. 

"Oh,  mother!"  sobbed  Dolly,  burying  her  face  in  the 
cushions  of  Valerie's  chair;  "why  did  you  leave  me 
alone?  Come  back,  come  back!  Oh,  mother,  mother, 
mother!" 


VI 

ST.  KATHARINE'S  CONVENT  in  Hertfordshire  was  the 
home  of  an  Anglican-Catholic  Sisterhood.  Dolly's  first 
impression  of  her  new  school  was  a  very  favourable  one. 
The  dignified  grey-stone  buildings  were  partially  covered 
with  flowering  creepers  and  surrounded  by  beautiful 
lawns  and  beds  full  of  gay  summer  blooms.  The  grounds 
were  well  laid  out  and  perfectly  kept;  masses  of  roses, 
great  bushes  of  syringa  and  late  rhododendrons,  long 
herbaceous  borders  full  of  sweet  smelling,  old-fashioned 
flowers,  with  a  ring  of  tall  treea  in  th«  background — all 
helped  to  make  up  a  delightful  picture  when  Dolly  »aw 
it  first,  bathed  in  the  June  sunlight. 

The  charming  appearance  of  the  place  came  as  a  pleas- 
ant surprise  to  the  girl,  who  had  vaguely  supposed  that 
a  convent  school  must  consist  of  grim  corridors  and  cells. 
Inside,  the  airy,  spacious  rooms,  the  old  mullioned  win- 
dows set  in  stone,  and  the  polished  parquet  floors  con- 
tinued the  good  impression  made  by  the  exterior.  The 
severity  of  the  furniture  and  of  the  blue-washed  walls, 
devoid  of  pictures  or  any  attempt  at  decoration,  seemed 
in  keeping  with  the  whole. 

But  when  Dolly  saw  the  dormitories,  in  which  xwenty 
girls  slept,  their  privacy  secured  only  by  curtainc  drawn, 
round  the  tiny  space  occupied  by  the  narrow  bed  and 
cupboard  allotted  to  each,  her  heart  sank,  and  black 
depression  descended  on  her. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  she  wrote  two  characteristic 
letters,  one  to  Dacre  Hamilton,  the  other  to  an  actress 
friend  of  her  mother's.     The  lawyer's  ran  as  follows; 
23 


24  DOWNWARD 

"St.  Katharine's  Convent. 


MB.  HAMILTON, 
"Please  will  you  try  and  arrange  for  me  to  be 
moved  to  another  school.  I  know  you  would  never  have 
chosen  this  one  for  me,  and  I'm  sure  even  those  hateful, 
tyrannous  trustees  would  not  wish  me  to  stay  here  if  they 
knew.  I  came  here  resolved  to  be  brave  and  bear  every- 
thing, as  my  mother  would  have  wished.  But  there  is  a 
limit  to  what  one  can  put  up  with.  Only  fancy,  in  the 
whole  of  the  large  buildings  —  looking  so  lovely  from  the 
outside,  with  all  the  flowers  and  trees  and  things  —  there 
isn't  a  single  bathroom!  There  are  two  hundred  or  so 
nuns  in  residence,  and  sixty  of  us  girls,  and  I  think 
about  a  hundred  children  in  the  Orphanage  (poor  chil- 
dren they  are),  and  a  lot  of  maids  called  Industrials  and 
always  some  visitors,  yet  not  a  bathroom  among  the  lot  — 
what  do  you  think  of  that? 

"We  have  to  use  horrid  little  hip-baths,  only  half  full 
of  tepid  water,  and  that  only  once  a  week,  if  you  can 
believe  it  1  One  of  the  lay  sisters  attends  to  it,  and  when 
I  complained  and  asked  for  more  hot  water,  she  was  so 
rough  and  rude  to  me.  And  we  only  can  have  our  heads 
washed  once  a  month,  and  then  mayn't  do  it  ourselves. 
And,  worst  of  all,  we  sleep  twenty  in  a  dormitory  —  a 
large  room,  of  course  —  but,  though  there  are  a  lot  of  very 
pretty  windows,  only  four  of  the  casements  will  open, 
and  actually  all  are  shut  up  at  night.  At  home  we 
always  had  all  our  windows  open  night  and  day,  and  I 
simply  can't  breathe  in  this  dreadful  stuffy  dormitory. 
There  are  curtains  drawn  right  round  every  bed,  which 
makes  it  stuffier  than  ever.  My  mother  was  so  very  par- 
ticular about  all  these  things,  she  would  have  been  simply 
horrified. 

'  I  was  prepared  for  the  uniform,  but  it  is  very  horrid 
to  have  to  wear  a  dress  that  some  other  girl  has  worn.  It 
is  a  blue  serge  sailor  dress,  with  a  white  flannel  front, 
which  we  have  to  wear  half  the  term  before  we  get  a 
clean  one.  You  would  not  like  to  wear  a  shirt  and  collar 


DOWNWARD  25 

seven  weeks,  would  you?     The  sisters  take  jolly  good 
care  to  have  their  own  caps  and  collars  immaculate. 

"I  haven't  mentioned  the  food,  which  I  can't  eat,  nor 
the  dreadful  early  rising,  nor  the  crossness  of  the  sisters, 
nor  anything  else,  because  I  am  resolved  not  to  grumble, 
but  dirtiness  is  another  matter,  and  I'm  sure  you  will 
agree  that  it's  unbearable. 

"Please  don't  think  me  ungrateful  for  all  your  kind- 
ness ;  I  know  it  isn  't  your  fault,  but  please  get  the  trus- 
tees to  move  me  somewhere  else.  I  should  so  like  a  school 
at  the  seaside.  When  we've  been  on  South-coast  A  Com- 
pany Tours,  I've  often  thought,  when  we  met  the  schools 
walking  on  the  parade  or  going  to  bathe,  how  jolly  they 
looked.  Yours  sincerely, 

"VALERIE  ANTOINETTE  DOROTHEA  FITZGERALD. 

"P.S. — If  the  sisters  don't  mind  being  dirty,  it's  their 
own  affair,  and  perhaps  it's  part  of  their  vow  of  poverty 
to  be  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  but  why  should  we,  who 
haven't  taken  vows,  have  to  suffer  too? 

"P.P.S. — I've  just  remembered  that  mother  always 
said  business  men,  especially  lawyers,  didn't  like  long 
letters.  Please  forgive  me ;  if  only  you  '11  get  me  moved 
from  here  I  won't  worry  you  again  for  ages. — V.A.D.F." 

The  second  letter  was  less  restrained. 

"DAELING  Miss  VAVASOUR"  (it  ran), 

"I  am  having  what  you  would  call  simply  a  hell 
of  a  time.  This  place  is  the  deadliest  hole.  The  sisters 
would  be  amusing  if  they  weren  't  so  nasty.  They  aren  't 
a  bit  like  the  nuns  I've  read  about  in  novels — always 
happy  about  nothing,  with  shining  faces  and  an  atmos- 
phere of  loving  everybody.  But  they  do  say  awfully 
funny  things.  When  I  told  Sister  Augustine,  the  second 
in  charge,  that  my  mother  was  an  actress  and  I'd  spent 
most  of  my  life  on  tour  with  her,  her  eyebrows  disap- 
peared right  under  her  cap,  and  probably  over  the  back 
of  her  head  as  well,  and  she  said  with  a  kind  of  gasp, 
'  But  what  kind  of  people  did  you  consort  with  f  Surely 


26  DOWNWARD 

not  ladies  and  gentlemen!'  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Co. 
laugh  when  you  read  this  bit  to  them ! 

"Sister  Francesca,  our  Head,  is  simply  a  fiend.  Do 
you  remember  that  lovely  brown  coat  and  skirt  darling 
Mums  got  me  at  Redf erns,  and  you  scolded  her  for  being 
extravagant  over  me  ?  It  had  everything  else  to  match — 
the  cunningest  hat,  gloves,  stockings  and  suede  shoes  all 
in  the  same  shade,  and  I  wore  the  kit  to  come  here,  with 
a  clinking  lace  blouse  and  one  of  the  stocks  mother  used 
to  get  from  Paris.  I  could  see  at  the  station  that  it  hit 
the  girls  in  the  eye,  but  when  I  arrived  Sister  Francesca 
said  almost  in  the  same  breath  as  she  greeted  me,  'I 
understood  that  you  had  lost  your  mother  six  weeks 
ago  ? '  Wasn  't  it  cruel  and  hateful  ?  I  nearly  broke  down 
at  once,  and  then  it  dawned  on  me  that  she  had  expected 
me  to  be  swathed  in  black !  I  said,  rather  chokily,  '  So  I 
have  lost  her  and  everything  else  that  I  care  for,  but 
that's  no  reason  why  I  should  make  the  world  hideous 
with  crape,  and  mother  disapproved  of  outward  mourn- 
ing.' I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude — it  just  rapped  out 
somehow.  You  see,  just  before  Mums  was  taken  ill,  we 
had  gone  to  a  play  of  Bernard  Shaw's  (you  know  how  we 
both  adored  his  plays),  in  which  he  says  that  about  black, 
and  Mums  said  how  sensible  it  was,  and  that  she'd  never 
worn  mourning  in  her  life  and  hoped  I  never  would. 

"But  Sister  Francesca 's  eyes  were  like  cold  spikes  and 
she  pressed  her  lips  together  until  her  mouth  reminded 
me  of  a  darning-needle  and  said  in  a  voice  like  a  frozen 
well :  '  In-deed  ?  Let  me  tell  you  a  disrespectful  tongue 
is  not  suffered  at  St.  Katherine's.  Learn  to  curb  it 
forthwith.  You  may  go.'  A  nice,  kind,  cheering  wel- 
come, wasn't  it?  But  they're  not  all  such  beasts.  As  I 
went  upstairs  with  all 'my  courage  gone  and  feeling  as  if 
my  heart  was  bursting  and  my  eyes  going  to  drop  out,  I 
met  Sister  Augustine,  who  took  me  in  her  arms  without 
a  word  and  gave  me  quite  a  motherly  hug — they  don't 
approve  of  kissing !  And  she  helped  me  off  with  my 
things  and  said,  'What  a  pretty  frock!'  But  presently 
she  said,  'My  dear,  your  shoes  are  a  very  foolish  shape, 


DOWNWARD  27 

and  I  don't  think  Reverend  Mother  would  like  you  to  go 
to  chapel  in  those  peculiar  stockings !'  Wasn't  it  scream- 
ingly funny — she  disapproved  of  the  open-work!  Can 
you  believe  it?  And  she  said  silk  stockings  were  very 
unsuitable  for  school-girls ! 

''I'm  in  one  of  the  lower  classes,  among  quite  little 
girls,  and  they  all  know  more  than  me.  Isn  't  it  horrid  ? 
But  it's  my  own  fault,  I  know,  and  I  mean  to  work  like 
mad  and  learn  all  they  can  teach  me  here,  though  I  don't 
believe  it  will  be  much  use  to  me.  The  sisters  never  seem 
to  think  of  our  future.  Sister  Charlotte,  who  takes  my 
form,  constantly  says,  'You  needn't  learn  such  and  such 
a  thing,  you  won't  be  asked  that  in  the  examination.' 
Their  one  idea  is  to  get  us  creditably  through  the  exams 
and  get  a  good  report  for  the  school  from  the  examiner. 
As  if  that  two-penny-ha'penny  little  standard  will  help 
us  in  the  future.  They  don't  seem  to  realize  that  we 
ought  to  be  educated  for  life  and  not  just  for  some  rotten 
exam. 

"As  yet  I  haven't  had  a  chance  of  making  friends  with 
the  girls  of  my  own  age,  but  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be 
here  long,  as  I  have  written  to  my  lawyer" — (Dolly 
wrote  this  phrase  with  a  great  feeling  of  importance) — 
"asking  him  to  move  me  to  another  school  where  there 
are  decent  bathrooms.  It's  simply  sickening  how  one 
has  to  do  here. 

' '  1  must  tell  you  about  Sister  Charlotte ;  she  is  a  weird 
creature,  and  so  thin,  she  almost  sways  in  the  wind.  The 
girls  call  her  'Spray'  because  of  it.  The  other  day  she 
found  ray  desk  untidy  and  said,  with  a  pained  expres- 
sion, 'What  would  Christ  say  if  He  were  to  come  sud- 
denly and  see  your  desk  in  this  state?'  I  said,  'No  doubt 
He's  observed  it  already,  but  yet  you  see  I'm  not  struck 
dead.  I  suppose  He's  got  something  more  important  to 
think  about.'  The  girls  all  tittered,  but  poor  Spray 
looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  have  a  fit.  She  said  I  was 
shockingly  irreverent  and  insolent,  and  threatened  me 
with  Reverend  Mother,  and  then  as  a  punishment  I  was 
put  in  the  corner,  like  a  baby,  Wasn't  it  futile!  To  be 


28  DOWNWARD 

sent  up  to  Reverend  Mother  is  considered  the  most  ter- 
rific punishment,  reserved  for  the  most  awful  offences, 
but  I  shouldn't  mind  it  a  bit,  as  the  Mother  is  quite  jolly- 
looking,  with  a  cheerful  red  face  and  almost  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye;  I'm  sure  she  would  understand  me  and  we 
would  get  quite  pals,  but  so  far  I  haven't  spoken  to  her 
at  all. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  at  first  they  called  me  Dora  be- 
cause there  is  already  a  Dorothea,  a  horrid,  spotty  girl 
who  breathes  loud  and  cleans  her  nails  during  lessons. 
They  disapprove  of  diminutives,  so  I  mustn't  be  called 
Dolly,  and  Antoinette  is  banned  because  of  its  associa- 
tions— (isn't  that  a  joke?) — and  I  couldn't  bear  to  be 
called  Valerie  now.  But  I  refused  to  answer  to  Dora, 
and  now  they  call  me  'Dorothea  F.'  But  I  make  the 
girls  say  Dolly. 

"We  may  only  seal  up  our  letters  to  parents,  but  by  a 
special  concession  I  am  allowed  to  shut  mine  to  Mr. 
Hamilton,  as  he  is  a  sort  of  guardian  to  me,  so  I  'm  going 
to  enclose  this  in  his.  If  I  left  it  open  for  Sister  Pran- 
cesca  to  read,  her  hair  would  stand  on  end  and  never  lie 
flat  again,  I'm  sure,  and,  of  course,  it  would  never  be 
passed ! 

"I  must  end  now,  darling  Miss  Vavasour.  Give  all 
whom  I  know  in  the  Co.  my  love,  and  with  tons  and 
stacks  to  yourself,  darling, 

' '  Your  loving  friend, 

"DOLLY  Frrz." 


VII 

DOLLY'S  dream  of  being  moved  to  a  seaside  school  was 
not  destined  to  be  realized  for  some  time.  Hamilton 
wrote  that  the  trustees  refused  to  hear  of  it,  and  Dolly, 
spoilt  child  as  she  was,  had  sufficient  good  sense  to  make 
the  best  of  the  inevitable.  Fortunately  it  was  the  sum- 
mer term,  when  many  of  the  conventional  rigors  were 
modified.  The  early  rising  was  scarcely  a  hardship  when 
one  awoke  to  bright  sunshine.  Instead  of  going  for 
walks,  too,  the  girls  remained  in  their  really  charming 
playground,  sitting  beneath  the  trees  and  playing  tennis. 
Evening  preparation  also  was  suspended  in  favour  of 
more  outdoor  play.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Dolly 
found  herself  in  constant  companionship  with  young 
girls  of  her  own  age,  and  the  change  was  pleasant 
enough. 

The  ignorance  of  the  world,  and  the  narrow- 
mindedness  of  even  the  elder  girls,  came  as  a  great  sur- 
prise to  the  actress'  daughter.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
they  knew  nothing,  understood  nothing  and  had  been 
nowhere.  Instinctively  she  realized  that  it  would  be  well 
to  keep  her  greater  knowledge  to  herself.  To  her  school- 
fellows in  turn  Dolly  was  a  fascinating  mystery.  Her 
vivacity,  high  spirits  and  brilliant  looks  attracted  them 
powerfully.  They  liked  to  brush  her  wonderful  hair, 
which  the  school  rule  compelled  her  to  keep  tightly 
plaited  during  the  week,  but  which  foamed  over  her 
shoulders  in  a  golden  cascade  on  Sundays.  They  listened 
delightedly  to  her  reminiscences  of  theatrical  life.  A 
girl  who  knew  Lewis  Waller  to  speak  to  and  had  once 
been  kissed  by  Sir  Charles  Wyndham  when  a  child — 
29 


80  DOWNWARD 

what  a  heroine !  A  girl  who  could  tell  them  such  excit- 
ing stories  of  life  behind  the  footlights,  quaint  mishaps 
on  tour,  amusing  remarks  from  the  gallery — well,  it  was 
better  fun  than  having  to  read  "The  Fairchild  Fam- 
ily" or  "Little  Women"  for  the  twentieth  time.  On 
Sunday  afternoons  these  innocuous  classics  lay  neglected 
on  their  shelves,  with  others  of  their  kind,  while  the 
elder  girls  gathered  round  Dolly  in  the  Fifth  Form 
Class-room.  According  to  the  strict  tradition  of  the 
school  there  was  socially  an  impassable  gulf  between  the 
three  lower  and  the  two  upper  forms,  but  in  Dolly's  case 
an  exception  was  tacitly  made,  and  although  only  a 
Third-Form  girl,  she  was  welcomed  in  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  the  Fifth  Form  Room,  and  thus  obtained  a 
kudos  which  no  amount  of  prowess  in  class  would  have 
gained  for  her. 

But  though  her  school-fellows  were  kind  and  friendly 
and  made  much  of  her,  there  was  no  real  intimacy.  They 
recognized  intuitively  that  the  actress'  daughter  was  not 
of  their  kind.  The  rigid  conventions  of  the  narrow- 
minded  clerico-provincial  class  to  which  they  mostly  be- 
longed caused  them  to  look  down  secretly  on  her,  though 
they  did  not  acknowledge  this  even  to  themselves,  and 
Dolly  was  certainly  not  sensitive  enough  to  detect  it.  But 
one  day  it  was  put  suddenly  into  blunt  words  by  Lettice 
Barclay,  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  hard-working  country 
vicar,  who  had  generously  provided  the  State  with  eleven 
children,  and  lived  in  direst  poverty  in  consequence. 

There  had  been  a  trifling  tiff  because  some  opinion  of 
Dolly's  had  been  pronounced  "unladylike,"  and  Dolly 
overheard  a  whisper  from  Lettice  Barclay — "What  can 
you  expect.  .  .  .  actress'  daughter.  ...  1"  In  an  in- 
stant a  fierce  passion  flamed  up  in  her  .  .  .  she  flung 
control  to  the  winds. 

"How  dare  y6u  speak  like  that  of  my  mother?  .  .  . 
my  mother!  Who  the  devil  are  you,  anyway — the  daugh- 
ter of  a  miserable  parsun,  a  sky-pilot — a  Bible-jumper — 
a  devil-dodger!" 

"My  father's  a  priest  of  God — how  dare  you  ...   1" 


DOWNWARD  81 

"I  know  the  sort,"  interrupted  Dolly,  savagely,  "my 
grandfather  was  another,  and  my  mother  ran  away  from 
him.  She  preferred  the  stage  to  a  horrid  rectory,  full  of 
canting  hypocrites  1" 

' '  I  daresay  your  grandfather  was  a  canting  hypocrite, 
but  my  Dad  isn't!  He's  a  good,  good  man,  and  the 
Bishop  thinks  no  end  of  him!" 

The  two  girls  faced  each  other — Dolly  with  murderous 
eyes  and  scarlet  cheeks,  her  tall  and  already  womanly 
developed  figure  giving  her  the  advantage  over  her  older 
opponent — a  thin,  dark  girl,  who  was  trembling  on  the 
edge  of  tears. 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  should  insult  my  mother, 
who's  dead.  My  mother's  as  good  as  any  of  your  clergy- 
women,  who  spend  their  lives  at  bun-struggles,  patroniz- 
ing the  poor  and  doing  more  harm  than  good." 

"She  doesn't  1"  screamed  Lettice,  evidently  taking  this 
for  an  attack  on  her  own  mother,  and  now  almost  beside 
herself. 

But  Dolly  would  not  allow  her  to  speak.  "My  mother 
was  good  and  beautiful,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  while 
your  clergywomen  sort  are  setting  the  whole  parish  by 
the  ears,  she  was  giving  joy  to  thousands,  and  so  making 
the  world  better.  My  mother 's  Juliet  was  considered  the 
best  ever  seen  in  the  provinces,  and  she  has  played  before 
the  King,  and  Sir  Henry  Irving  once  kissed  her  hand 
and  said  ..." 

"Here,  that  will  do."  The  head  girl,  a  cold,  dignified 
creature  of  eighteen  now  interposed.  "We've  heard 
enough  of  both  your  mothers.  Lettice,  I'm  surprised  at 
you."  The  vicar's  daughter  sat  down  at  her  own  desk 
and  began  to  cry  convulsively.  "As  for  you,"  the  head 
girl  turned  to  Dolly — still  standing  flushed  and  defiant — 
"you're  new"  (the  infinite  scorn  she  threw  into  this  last 
word  would  have  amused  an  older  observer)  "and  we 
make  allowances  accordingly.  But  most  of  us  have 
priests  in  our  families — 'sky-pilots'  and  'devil-dodgers' 
as  you  call  them — and  none  of  us  will  allow  the  Church 
to  be  abused.  Also,  I'll  thank  you  not  to  use  such  ex- 


82  DOWNWARD 

pressions  in  our  class-room.  "We  don't  mind  slang,  but 
we  '11  not  have  our  fathers  and  brothers  called  names,  and 
we  draw  the  line  at  swearing. ' ' 

"Swearing!"  cried  Dolly,  indignantly.  "I  never 
swore!" 

"You  said  'What  the  devil' I" 

"Pouf — d'you  call  that  swearing?" 

"Yes,  we  do;  and  you,  a  mere  Third  Form  girl,  have 
no  right  to  come  into  our  class-room  and  upset  one  of 
us."  She  indicated  the  cowering  Lettice,  whose  sobs 
threatened  to  become  hysterical 

"Have  you  done?"  asked  Dolly,  scornfully.  "Let  me 
remind  you  that  it  was  your  precious  Fifth  Form  girl 
who  began,  and  by  sneering  at  the  dead.  I  congratulate 
you  on  your  high  standard.  It's  a  good  thing  the  Third 
Form  can't  come  in  here  to  be  corrupted  by  it.  I'll  never 
enter  your  room  again  I" 

At  the  door  she  turned,  and  tossing  back  her  head  with 
a  superb  gesture  of  defiance,  announced:  "And  I'm 
proud  of  my  actress  mother  and  ashamed  of  my  bible- 
jumping  grandfather!  So  there!" 

Fortunately  this  incident  took  place  but  two  weeks 
before  the  end  of  the  term,  but  during  that  time  Dolly 
found  that  being  sent  to  Coventry  by  the  older  girls  was 
not  a  pleasant  experience.  On  the  last  Saturday  in  the 
term,  Lettice  came  to  Dolly  and  begged  her  forgiveness. 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  spoke  like  that.  I  didn't  really  mean 
anything  nasty  about  your  mother.  I've  been  to  confes- 
sion to-day,  and  Father  Morten  says  I  mayn't  communi- 
cate to-morrow  until  I've  asked  your  forgiveness.  I 
haven't  missed  my  fortnightly  communion  since  I  was 
confirmed  three  years  ago." 

"Is  that  the  only  reason  you  want  to  make  up?"  said 
Dolly,  coldly. 

"No — no — I'm  really  sorry.  I've  been  miserable  about 
it.  You've  lost  your  mother,  and  it  must  be  dreadful  for 
you." 

Dolly  kissed  her  suddenly  in  her  impulsive  way.  "It's 
all  right,"  she  said,  shyly,  "and  I'm  sorry  I  was  such  a 


DOWNWARD  83 

beast  about  your  father.  I  can  never  like  the  clergy  as  a 
class,  you  know,  because  of  grandfather  being  a  beast  to 
mother — but  some  of  them  aren't  bad.  Father  Morten's 
awfully  decent,  and  I  daresay  your  father's  very  good 
and  nice  too." 

"Oh,  if  you  knew  what  a  good  man  he  was,"  said  the 
vicar's  daughter,  sadly,  "how  he  works — how  mother 
•works — what  hard  lives  they  lead — never  thinking  of 
themselves  and  never  getting  any  gratitude — you'd  think 
them  saints,  Dolly." 

"All  right,  I  will,"  said  Dolly,  easily. 

The  incident  was  then  buried,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
the  next  term  Dolly  found  herself  warmly  welcomed  by 
the  older  girls,  and  again  made  free  of  the  Fifth  Form 
Room, 


VIII 

WHEN  the  cold  weather  set  in  Dolly  began  to  feel  the 
full  rigour  of  the  convent  routine.  The  early  rising  at 
six  o'clock  in  pitch  darkness,  washing  in  ice-cold  water, 
dressing  hastily  in  the  cold  but  stuffy  dormitory — it  was 
all  very  hard  for  the  spoilt  and  petted  girl  to  bear. 

Arrived  downstairs  one  waited  in  a  well-warmed  pas- 
sage, and  then  when  the  procession  was  formed,  marched 
to  chapel  along  icy-cold  cloisters,  through  the  open  arches 
of  which  the  rain  and  snow  could  sweep. 

The  office  of  Prime  was  not  attended  by  the  Chaplain, 
who  was  then  preparing  for  the  celebration  at  7.20.  As 
she  listened  sleepily  to  the  sisters  gabbling  the  Psalms, 
Dolly  used  to  think  daily  how  absolutely  uninspiring  was 
the  service,  how  unprayerful  it  made  her  feel,  and  how 
futile  to  compel  sleepy,  hungry,  chilled  school-girls  to 
attend  it. 

Prime  concluded,  the  girls  returned  to  their  school- 
rooms for  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  study  before  they 
broke  their  fast  at  eight  o'clock.  Two  hours,  it  will  be 
seen,  elapsed  between  rising  and  breakfast,  which  was 
eaten  in  strict  silence.  The  refectory  was  reached  by 
another  walk  through  the  cold  cloisters.  As  by  now 
every  one  was  famishing,  there  were  no  complaints  about 
the  meal,  though  it  consisted  only  of  bread  and  butter 
and  tea ;  even  the  homely  and  inexpensive  porridge  being 
an  extra!  Girls  who  had  shirked  Prime  were  compelled 
LO  eat  their  meal  standing,  which  those  whose  extras  took 
the  form  of  boiled  eggs  found  a  trial  indeed. 

"Exercises"  followed — the  girls  standing  one  behind 
the  other  along  the  dark  corridor,  waving  their  arms 
about  in  a  perfunctory  and  entirely  useless  manner.  No 
34 


DOWNWARD  85 

other  part  of  the  body  was  exercised — the  arm-waving 
was  tiring,  and  Sister  Augustine  who  supervised  it  knew 
no  more  about  the  rudiments  of  physical  culture  than  did 
the  youngest  girl  present. 

After  that  the  beds  were  made,  and  any  one  fairly 
quick  at  this  might  count  on  a  whole  fifteen  minutes  to 
herself  before  morning  school.  By  the  time  the  real 
work  of  the  day  began,  at  9.15,  a  delicate  girl  was  already 
feeling  languid  and  devitalized. 

At  12.30,  half  an  hour  was  allowed  for  a  plain  and  ill- 
cooked  dinner,  which  invariably  consisted  of  over-done 
meat,  tasteless  potatoes,  and  a  plain  pudding — never  fish 
or  poultry,  and  the  only  second  vegetable  ever  seen  on 
the  table  was  a  mess  of  what  is  best  described  by  the 
generic  term  of  ' '  greens. ' ' 

Two  hours'  walk  followed,  and  after  that  two  more 
hours  of  school  left  the  girls  ravenous  for  their  bread  and 
butter  and  tea  at  half-past  five. 

From  the  refectory  they  repaired  to  chapel  for  Ves- 
pers. The  girls  liked  this  office,  which  was  read  by  the 
Chaplain,  and  had  all  the  charm  that  pervades  a  service 
at  even.  The  beautiful  stained-glass  windows  were  lit 
up  by  well-arranged  lights,  and  as  they  stood  singing  the 
Psalms,  contemplating  the  marble  reredos  for  which  St. 
Katharine's  was  justly  famed,  a  feeling  of  peace  and 
serenity  was  wont  to  steal  over  the  harassed  school-girls. 

At  7.30,  after  an  hour's  "preparation,"  they  were  al- 
lowed the  first  and  only  hour  of  the  day  to  themselves. 
Only  the  lower  forms,  however,  could  take  advantage  of 
it.  From  their  class-rooms  sounds  of  games  and  laughter 
proceeded,  but  a  glimpse  into  the  silent  Fourth  and 
Fifth  rooms  would  have  shown  the  girls  still  studying 
hard  at  their  desks.  They  had  too  much  work  to  do  to 
waste  time  in  recreation,  and  some  of  them  took  their 
books  to  bed  (at  8.30),  to  con  during  their  dressing  and 
undressing.  They  were  to  be  seen  studying  their  Shake- 
spearean plays  at  meals,  and  the  portion  of  the  Old  Tes- 
tament set  for  the  examinations  during  the  walks.  Al- 
most every  girl  leaving  school  from  the  Fifth  Form  had 


36  DOWNWARD 

learnt  to  detest  Shakespeare,  and  within  a  year  had 
forgotten  all  the  "speeches"  so  painfully  learnt  by  heart. 

At  8.15,  a  can  of  water,  a  dozen  or  so  mugs,  and  two 
or  three  plates  of  bread  and  butter  (barely  enough  to 
allow  a  piece  all  round)  were  placed  on  the  oil-cloth 
covered  table  in  the  First  Form  room.  Fortunately  the 
girls  were  always  too  hungry  to  be  sensitive ;  they  shared 
the  mugs  between  them,  and  all  but  scrambled  for  the 
bread  and  butter.  Dolly  had  at  first  viewed  these  pro- 
ceedings with  disgust,  but  hunger,  the  great  leveller, 
soon  took  the  edge  off  her  refined  disdain,  and  in  a  very 
few  weeks  she  was  scrambling  with  the  rest. 

About  the  middle  of  the  term  Dolly  wrote  to  her 
mother's  friend,  Miss  Vavasour,  as  follows: 

"St.  Katharine's  Convent. 

"MY  OWN  DEAREST  MlSS  VAVASOUR, 

"After  all  your  goodness  to  me  in  the  summer  holi- 
days and  letting  me  have  that  glorious  time  with  you  at 
the  seaside,  it  was  angelic  of  you  to  send  me  that  lovely 
hamper,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  thankful  I  was  to  get 
it  as  here  one  simply  dreams  of  nice  things  to  eat.  The 
meals  are  so  horrible,  often  I  can't  eat  the  meat  at  all; 
it's  cooked  to  extinction  and  doesn't  taste  of  any  animal. 
It  cornea  up  in  slices,  so  as  we  never  see  a  joint  on  the 
table  we  can't  tell  what  it  is  meant  to  be.  Twice  a  week 
we  have  what  the  girls  call  'mush';  it's  a  horrid  kind  of 
stew  which  I'm  sure  is  made  of  cats  or  horses;  it  tastes 
so  peculiar  and  is  thickly  covered  with  horrible  black 
pepper,  to  keep  down  the  cat-taste  the  girls  say.  It 
makes  me  sick,  and  on  mush  days  I  can  only  eat  the  pud- 
dings, and  not  always  them.  The  only  really  bearable 
pudding  we  have  is  open  jam -tart,  and  as  often  as  not 
it's  marmalade  instead  of  jam,  which  I  can't  eat,  as  it's 
such  dreadful,  coarse,  rank  stuff,  made  by  the  sisters 
themselves  out  of  goodness  knows  what.  Gertie  Payne 
(who  sits  next  to  me)  and  I  are  always  excited  about  the 
pudding.  On  the  days  when  the  tart  is  brought  in,  we 
can  hardly  breathe  for  fear  it's  going  to  be  marmalade, 


DOWNWARD  87 

but  when  it's  put  down  on  the  table,  we  squeeze  hands 
with  joy  if  it's  jam.  Isn't  it  disgusting  that  big  girls  of 
our  age  should  be  so  preoccupied  about  food,  but  when 
you're  hungry  you  get  quite  different  ideas  about 
greediness,  you  know. 

"On  holidays  we're  allowed  to  send  a  list  to  the  con- 
fectioner and  grocer,  but  may  only  send  one  shilling  alto- 
gether, and  we  can  settle  to  nothing  until  the  things 
arrive,  we're  so  dying  for  them.  It's  not  right,  is  it? 
The  other  day  I  found  myself  being  civiler  than  neces- 
sary to  a  girl  who  had  a  tin  of  biscuits  left — wasn't  it 
horrible  of  me,  but  I  simply  couldn't  help  it — I  did  so 
want  her  to  offer  me  a  biscuit ! 

"So  you  see  what  a  godsend  your  hamper  will  be  to 
me.  Last  term  it  was  so  hot,  one  didn  't  want  to  eat,  but 
this  cold  makes  one  ravenous.  The  bread  and  butter  is 
decent,  fortunately,  but  it's  not  supposed  to  be  etiquette 
to  go  on  eating  at  meals  after  the  others,  so  we  all  eat  as 
fast  as  we  can  for  about  Ifteen  minutes  and  then  all 
stop  at  once.  The  absurdity  of  it  would  make  me  laugh, 
only  I  nearly  always  have  a  tight  pain  in  my  chest  after- 
wards ;  I  expect  the  others  do  too,  from  eating  too  fast, 
only  they  would  think  it  rude  to  talk  about  it. 

"We  daren't  complain,  because  the  sisters'  one  idea  of 
treating  ailments  of  every  kind  is  to  dose  with  a  tumbler 
full  of  Gregory  Powder!  I  don't  suppose  you  know 
what  that  is,  but  mother  used  to  tell  me  it  was  given 
when  she  was  a  child,  before  people  had  learned  how 
cruel  and  unnecessary  these  awful  mixtures  are.  The 
sisters  are  years  and  years  behind  the  times  in  all  their 
ideas;  isn't  it  odd  to  keep  a  school  and  know  so  little 
about  everything  ?  When  Sister  Augustine  tried  to  make 
me  take  the  filthy  stuff,  I  told  her  mother  disapproved 
of  drugs  and  said  fruit  was  the  proper  medicine  for  chil- 
dren. She  was  awfully  angry,  and  said  she  'd  report  me 
to  Sister  Francesca  for  irreverence !  I  can 't  think  why 
one  should  have  to  be  reverent  about  medicines !  But 
they're  always  jawing  about  my  irreverence.  One  night 
while  one  of  the  girls  was  having  her  bath,  I  put  the 


88  DOWNWARD 

large  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  stands  at  the  top 
of  the  dormitory,  into  her  bed  for  a  lark.  She  screamed 
when  she  saw  it,  and  Augustine  came  rushing  in.  Well, 
the  fuss  they  made  about  that  you'd  never  believe.  I 
was  reported  to  Sister  Francesca,  who  talked  of  'the  out- 
rage to  our  Blessed  Lady'  until  I  had  to  remind  myself 
it  was  only  a  statue  after  all! 

"But  to  go  back  to  their  ideas  about  illness.  Poor 
Gertie  Payne  had  a  fearful  earache  the  other  night  and 
couldn't  sleep.  When  I  heard  her  crying,  I  got  up  and 
fetched  Augustine.  It  was  a  wonder  she  didn't  suggest 
Gregory  Powder,  but  all  she  could  think  of  was  to  put 
cotton- wool  in  Gertie's  ear!  I  remembered  how  mother 
sat  up  all  one  night  when  I  had  earache,  and  kept  boil- 
ing potatoes  to  put  on  my  ear,  wrapped  in  flannel.  I 
told  Augustine  that  if  she  could  get  the  potatoes,  I'd 
light  the  bathroom  fire  and  do  all  the  rest  of  it.  She 
flourished  her  sleeves  in  that  funny  way  she  has  and 
said,  'Unheard  of!  Potatoes  at  this  hour  of  the  night! 
The  kitchens  are  locked,  and  Sister  Agnes  has  the  key 
in  her  cubicle.'  I  asked  why  Sister  Agnes  couldn't  be 
wakened,  but  she  seemed  to  think  that  was  an  irrever- 
ence, and  said  the  conventual  rule  could  not  be  disor- 
ganized just  to  ease  a  little  suffering! 

"Wasn't  it  abominable?  when  one  knows  what  agony 
earache  is.  The  next  day  Gertie  was  so  bad — it  turned 
out  to  be  an  abscess — that  they  took  her  to  see  a  doctor. 
She  had  to  walk  all  the  way  there  and  back  in  the  pierc- 
ing cold,  though  her  mother  would  gladly  have  paid  for 
a  cab,  she  said,  or  why  couldn't  the  doctor  come  to  her? 
Of  course  the  cold  made  her  worse,  and  now  she  has 
irysiplis  (I  don't  know  how  to  spell  it)  in  the  head  and 
is  in  the  infirmary,  very  bad  indeed,  and  her  mother  and 
father  are  frantic.  Thank  goodness,  I'm  too  strong  to 
get  ill  here,  though  I've  lost  all  my  colour.  Most  of  the 
girls  are  as  pasty  as  can  be  by  the  middle  of  the  term, 
though  they  come  back  looking  blooming.  .  ,  ." 


IX 

DOLLY'S  career  at  St.  Katharine's  was  cut  short  sud- 
denly at  the  end  of  a  year.  In  her  second  summer,  a 
house  was  taken  at  Bognor,  and  about  a  dozen  girls  who 
had  either  no  home  to  go  to,  or  whose  people  were  in 
India,  were  sent  there  for  the  holidays,  in  charge  of 
Sister  Augustine  and  Sister  Eva,  head  of  the  school  nur- 
sery. Recently  a  little  girl  of  three  had  been  received 
into  the  nursery,  and  it  was  generally  understood  that 
she  had  been  adopted  by  the  sisters. 

One  morning,  when  the  little  group  of  girls  were 
seated  on  the  beach,  waiting  their  turns  at  the  bathing 
machines,  the  conversation  turned  upon  this  child,  whom 
Sister  Eva  was  forcibly  dipping  in  a  pool  of  water  lower 
down  on  the  shore,  regardless  of  the  baby's  yells. 

It  was  a  bleak,  stormy  day  and  the  near  proximity  of 
the  high,  dashing  waves  evidently  frightened  the  tiny 
girl.  Sister  Eva  took  not  the  smallest  heed  of  her  terror, 
but  went  on  with  the  task,  rather  roughly  and  in  grim 
silence.  The  older  girls  were  muttering  condemnations. 

"Sister  Eva  isn't  fit  to  have  the  care  of  a  baby  like 
that,"  said  Dolly,  indignantly.  "Why,  she  isn't  even 
trying  to  soothe  her ! ' ' 

"I  do  pity  the  poor  mite,"  remarked  Winnie  Dur- 
ham. "I'm  glad  I've  not  got  to  spend  all  my  life  at  the 
convent.  It's  quite  bad  enough  to  have  to  spend  one's 
holidays  here  once  in  a  way  because  they've  got  measles 
at  home." 

' '  How  would  you  like  to  spend  nearly  all  your  holidays 
here  like  I  do?"  returned  Dolly.  "I  wonder  what  will 
happen  to  poor  Baby  Nora  when  she's  grown  up.  Will 
they  make  her  a  sister?" 

39 


40  DOWNWARD 

"Oh,  no,  they  never  make  any  one  a  sister.  She  may 
have  to  teach  in  the  school,  or  help  in  the  workroom,  or 
perhaps  she'll  have  to  work  in  their  foreign  mission  at 
Shanghai." 

"That  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  You'd  have  some  fun  on 
the  voyage,  at  any  rate,  and  it  would  be  more  life-like 
than  St.  Katharine's,"  said  Dolly. 

"But  think  how  awful  never  to  get  away  from  the 
sisters,"  continued  the  other  girl,  "to  owe  everything  to 
them,  and  to  have  one 's  whole  life  settled  by  them. ' ' 

"Winifred!  that's  a  very  naughty  way  to  speak!" 
ejaculated  Sister  Augustine  from  her  camp  stool  a  few 
yards  off.  She  was  knitting  and  at  the  same  time  mum- 
bling through  the  office  of  Tierce  from  an  open  breviary. 
According  to  the  school  custom,  she  addressed  the 
seventeen-year-old  girl  as  one  might  a  small  child. 

"I  never  thought  she'd  hear,"  whispered  the  rebuked 
one  to  Dolly. 

"You  shouldn't  shout  so — besides,  she  hears  every- 
thing," returned  Dolly.  Her  thoughts  were  busy  with 
the  adopted  baby-girl.  Again  she  recalled  her  mother's 
words  about  the  importance  of  having  a  little  money, 
and  an  impulse  of  thankfulness  for  the  existence  of  the 
"hateful,  tyrannous  trustees"  rose  in  her  heart.  At 
least  she  was  better  off  than  little  Nora. 

"I  suppose  the  poor  child  is  illegitimate,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"Illegitimate — what's  that?"  questioned  Winnie,  in 
her  loud  voice. 

"It's— oh— er "  She  looked  at  the  older  girl 

curiously.  "Don't  you  really  know?" 

"No,  tell  rae." 

Dolly  glanced  at  Sister  Augustine.  That  she  had 
again  overheard  was  obvious.  The  good  sister's  jaw  had 
fallen — her  mouth  was  wide  open;  she  was  gazing  at 
Dolly,  horror-stricken;  her  breviary  fell  to  the  ground 
and  lay  unheeded. 

"Go  on — what  is  it?"  urged  Winnie. 

"Shut  up,"  whispered  Dolly,  fiercely.    Sister  Augus- 


DOWNWARD  41 

tine  made  an  effort  to  recover  her  composure.  "Bun 
down  to  the  sea,  children,"  she  called,  clapping,  her 
hands  to  attract  her  flock's  attention.  "The  machines 
are  empty  now.  Sister  Eva,  see  they  all  have  ropes;  it's 
very  rough.  Off  with  you  all.  Not  you,  Dorothea;  I 
want  you  here." 

Dolly  had  risen  with  unusual  promptness  to  obey,  but 
now  resumed  her  sitting  posture  and  commenced  ner- 
vously to  bore  holes  in  the  sand.  When  all  the  girls  were 
out  of  earshot,  Sister  Augustine  left  her  camp-stool  and 
sat  on  the  ground  close  to  the  girl. 

She  cleared  her  throat  several  times.  Dolly's  eyes 
were  cast  down.  "Now  for  it,"  she  thought. 

"Dorothea,"  the  nun  said  at  last  in  a  very  solemn 
voice,  "don't  you  know  it's  very  wrong  to  talk  of  such 
things.  Is  it  possible  that  you  know  the  meaning  of  that 
dreadful  word?" 

"Yes,  Sister  Augustine." 

"How  monstrous  that  a  child  like  you !" 

"I'm  not  a  child,  Sister;  I'm  seventeen  at  Christmas, 
and  Winnie's  nearly  eighteen.  We're  almost  women." 

The  nun  who  had  renounced  life  and  the  girl  who 
thirsted  to  live  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes.  Fire 
flashed  from  the  vivid  blue  ones  of  the  budding  woman 
— perplexity  and  dismay  from  the  dull  eyes  of  the  older 
one,  who  had  starved  her  womanhood  for  the  sake  of  her 
soul. 

"Well,  but  how  long  have  you  had  this  terrible  knowl- 
edge, and  who  told  you  ? ' ' 

"I've  known  .  .  ."  the  girl  hesitated;  "I've  known 
all  that  for  a  long  time,  and  I  was  told  by  the  proper 
person — my  mother." 

"Your  mother!"  Sister  Augustine  almost  shrieked 
the  words.  She  had  been  prepared  for  revelations  of 
unlocked  bookcases,  imprudent,  tattling  servants — 
knowledge  obtained  through  some  accidental  and  unlaw- 
ful means.  But  that  a  mother  should  so  pollute  and 
defile  the  innocent  child-mind — it  was  infamous,  incred- 
ible !  Nevertheless,  she  checked  the  exclamations  of  hor- 


42  DOWNWARD 

ror  which  were  rushing  to  her  lips.  Dolly's  champion- 
ship of  that  very  peculiar  mother  of  hers  was  well 
known. 

A  year  ago,  even  the  shocked  note  in  the  sister's  voice 
would  have  elicited  a  torrent  of  uncontrolled,  tempestu- 
ous words  from  the  girl,  who  had  been  wont  to  lose  her 
temper  and  use  insolent  language  at  criticism  of  any 
kind.  But  Dolly  had  learnt  much  from  the  school  dis- 
cipline. Ignorant,  narrow  and  prejudiced  as  she  be- 
lieved  the  sisters  to  be — they  had  taught  her  valuable 
lesson  nevertheless.  Her  demeanour  now  was  quiet  and 
respectful.  She  set  herself  patiently  to  try  and  explain. 

''Yes,  Sister  Augustine,  I  know  it  seems  strange  to 
you,  but  people  think  so  differently  in  the  outside  world 
now  from  what  they  used.  Anyhow,  mother  always 
thought  out  all  the  problems  for  herself ;  she  said  every 
one  ought  to  do  that,  and  not  follow  other  people  like 
sheep.  She  thought  it  wicked  to  let  girls  grow  up  with 
wrong  ideas,  gathered  from  the  wrong  sources,  which 
they  are  bound  to  do,  if  they  are  not  taught  the  right 
ones  by  the  right  person." 

"But — but,"  interrupted  the  harassed  sister,  "girls 
ought  to  have  no  ideas  on  such  subjects  I" 

Dolly  smiled.  "Perhaps  they  oughtn't,"  she  said, 
quietly,  "but  all  the  same  they  do  have  them,  and  it's 
facts  you've  got  to  reckon  with,  not  theories." 

"Well?"  asked  the  older  woman,  helplessly.  She  had 
set  out  so  confidently  to  rebuke,  to  teach,  but  already  she 
had  been  swirled  out  of  her  depths  into  the  maze  of  a 
deep  and  difficult  problem. 

The  actress's  daughter  continued  to  expound  calmly. 

"Mother  said  it  was  most  important  that  little  girls 
should  learn  the  right  ideas  from  the  beginning,  so  sin 
explained  everything  to  me,  as  scon  as   I   begau  to  ;is 
questions." 

"  \Vhal  did  she  tell  pojlf"  asked  tin-  nun 

l>oll\   vr«)  In  ki        •'  -  A  i  isi<  n     ' 


DOWNWARD  48 

found,  and  of  course  it  was  told  gradually,  bit  by  bit, 
just  as  I  was  ready  for  the  knowledge — it's  difficult  to 
convey  it  to  some  one  else.  She  used  to  say  that  sex  was 
the  centre  of  everything,  the  pivot  on  which  the  world 
went  round,  and  it  was  a  beautiful,  mysterious  thing 
which  should  never  be  thought  about  as  ugly  or  repul- 
sive. She  said  only  ignorant  or  vulgar  minds  regarded 
it  like  that.  She  said  it  was  best  for  a  little  girl  to  accept 
it  as  a  wonderful  mystery,  just  like  the  sun's  shining,  or 
the  earth  making  things  grow,  which  is  really  far  more 
wonderful,  and  not  to  dwell  on  the  thought  of  it  or 
puzzle  about  it,  as  the  time  for  pondering  on  the  problem 
of  sex  would  come  later.  She  said  sex  was  common  to  all 
nature,  and  she  used  to  show  me  in  the  garden  how  inter- 
esting it  was  the  way  the  bulbs  propagated  themselves ; 
when  we  dug  the  tulips  up  to  make  way  for  the  summer 
geraniums  we  used  to  find  the  baby  bulblets  all  attached 
to  the  mother  bulb.  The  power  in  the  earth  had  done  it, 
mother  said.  And  then  the  rabbits  had  babies,  and  the 
canaries  too,  and  mother  used  to  explain  how  quite  natu- 
ral it  all  was.  And  she  showed  me  how  even  the  flowers 
were  propagated,  and  when  we  planted  a  certain  kind  of 
laurel — I  forget  the  name — we  had  to  put  the  male  bush 
near  the  female  bush,  or  else  it  wouldn't  have  any  red 
berries  in  the  autumn." 

At  this  frank  exposition  of  the  mechanism  of  sex, 
albeit  merely  in  bushes,  Sister  Augustine  stirred  un- 
easily. The  words  "male"  and  "female"  always  dis- 
turbed her,  even  in  the  Bible.  She  strove  to  collect  her 
bewildered  faculties. 

"All  that  is  harmless  enough,"  she  said,  "but  we  are 
getting  away  from  our  starting-point.  You  used — er — 
er — a  very  dreadful  word,  and  said  you  understood  its 
meaning.  Surely  your  mother  did  not  explain  that  to 
you?" 

"Yes,  she  did;  she  thought  it  best  that  I  should  get 
accustomed  to  it,  as  the  idea  might  come  as  a  shock 
later  on." 


44  DOWNWARD 

"But  why  should  a  child — a  young  girl,  have  to  get 
accustomed  to  this  terrible  thing?" 

Dolly  looked  cautiously  around ;  no  one  was  in  earshot. 
Then  boldly  she  answered . 

"Because  I'm  the  terrible  thing  myself.  I'm  illegiti- 
mate." 

A  gasp  was  the  only  sound  heard  from  Sister  Augus- 
tine. Her  mouth  had  again  fallen  open;  she  was  pale 
beneath  her  sunburn.  Involuntarily  her  hand  clutched 
the  crucifix  that  hung  on  her  brown  serge  breast,  and 
hastily  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  as  before  some 
spirit  of  evil. 

"My  child!"  she  ejaculated  in  a  scared  whisper. 
"You  cannot  mean " 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  it,"  said  Dolly,  rather  sharply,  al- 
ready regretting  her  confidence.  "I'm  not  ashamed  of 
it,  though  I  don't  talk  about  it  because  mother  said  it 
wouldn't  be  wise.  It's  my  secret,  and  you  mustn't 
repeat  it." 

"God  forbid  1" 

"But  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  mind;  it  wasn't  darling 
mother's  fault.  She  would  have  asked  nothing  better 
than  to  marry  the  man  she  loved,  naturally.  It  was  his 
fault.  He  spoilt  her  life.  I  hate  him!"  The  young 
voice  had  suddenly  grown  cruelly  hard,  and  the  blue 
eyes  steeled  and  narrowed. 

"But,  Dorothea,  have  you  no  shame?  Don't  you 
realize  that  you're  a  child  of  sin?" 

"Sin!"  echoed  Dolly,  fiercely — her  patience  definitely 
at  an  end.  "Who  made  you  a  judge  of  sin?  What  do 
you  know  of  my  mother 's  temptation  ? — of  her  life  ? — of 
any  life  ?  If  my  mother  sinned,  then  she  has  suffered  for 
it  most  bitterly.  She  was  only  twenty-three  when  I  was 
born,  and  because  she  looked  upon  herself  as  my  father's 
wife,  she  lived  lonely  and  celibate  all  the  rest  of  her  life. ' ' 

' '  That  is  no  hardship  ! ' '  rapped  out  Augustine,  almost 
involuntarily,  then  flushing  at  her  own  speech. 

"Not  to  you,  perhaps,"  said  Dolly,  scornfully,  "but 
my  mother  was  a  glorious  woman  destined  for  joy  and 


DOWNWARD  45 

love" — the  nun  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  with  a  little 
cry — "she  could  have  married  any  one;  men  went  mad 
over  her!" 

"Child,  child,  I  cannot  listen  to  this  godless  talk!" 

"No,  and  it's  no  use  trying  to  make  you  understand," 
said  Dolly,  wearily;  "you're  like  a  being  from  another 
race  to  mother." 

"I  thank  God  that  is  so!"  ejaculated  the  nun,  unde- 
terred by  the  flashing  of  battle  into  Dolly's  angry  face. 
"We  must  not  discuss  it  further;  I  have  done  very 
wrong  to  allow  it — to  share  in  it ;  I  have  broken  our  rule 
in  so  doing.  You  make  me  sorrowful  and  afraid,  Doro- 
thea; you  say  such  terrible  things,  and  seem  so  deter- 
mined to  be  on  the  side  of  evil.  You — a  newly  confirmed 
girl ;  it  is  shocking — shocking !  We  all  have  our  tempta- 
tions. The  devil  encompasses  us  round  about,  but  you 
seem  positively  to  plead  his  cause!  You  are  a  danger 
to  the  other  children.  It  is  all  most  dreadful.  I  must 
tell  Sister  Francesca — she  will  consult  the  Priest." 
Tears  were  running  down  her  face ;  she  was  genuinely 
distressed.  "I  cannot  understand  you  at  all,"  she 
almost  moaned;  "a  child  of  sin  should 

"But  I'm  not  a  child  of  sin!  Children  of  sin  are  the 
children  of  loveless  marriages.  Mother  said  a  loveless 
marriage  was  a  sacrilege.  Mother  considered  my  father 
truly  her  husband;  she  had  no  other.  I'm  not  a  child  of 
sin;  I'm  the  child  of  a  splendid  love — and  that's  why 
I'm  so  strong  and  healthy,  and  that's  whv  I'm  well  made 
and  tall  and  fine " 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  Sister  Augustine,  now  almost 
hysterical  "I  cannot,  will  not  listen!"  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  wide  sleeves  and  bowed  herself  to  the  ground, 
almost  bent  double,  shaking  with  sobs.  The  echo  of  ele- 
mental fury  and  passion  she  had  awakened  had  utterly 
overcome  the  celibate  woman. 

Dolly  left  her  there  and  ran  down  to  the  bathing- 
machines.  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  plunged  into  the 
Burf  and  was  swimming  with  sure  and  vigorous  strokes 
out  towards  the  boat  from  which  they  dived.  She  did 


46  DOWNWARD 

not  feel  unhappy.  The  aspersions  of  such  as  Sister 
Augustine  on  her  mother  mattered  nothing.  A  strange 
exultation  sang  in  her  blood.  The  sea  always  exhilarated 
her;  to-day  its  sting  in  her  face  was  like  some  glorious 
wine,  some  strange,  maddening  drug.  She  put  all  her 
force  into  her  strokes,  and  aloud  above  the  din  of  the 
waves  she  called : 

"Your  girl  is  happy,  mother!    Mother,  I  mean  to  live! 
I  mean  to  live!" 


THAT  night,  when  the  girls  were  all  in  bed,  Sister 
Augustine,  instead  of  occupying  herself  as  usual  with 
Baying  those  offices  which  she  had  not  managed  to  recite 
during  the  day,  sat  down  to  write  to  her  superior. 

"DEAR  FRANCESCA,  SISTER  IN  CHRIST/'  she  wrote, 

"I  am  in  very  great  perplexity  about  Dorothea 
Fitzgerald.  As  you  know,  I  have  always  liked  the  child 
and  found  much  good  in  her.  To-day,  however,  I  have 
had  a  very  painful  and  sad  experience  with  her.  This 
morning  on  the  beach,  and  before  the  other  children,  I 
heard  her  state  quite  openly  that  our  little  Nora  must  be 
illegitimate,  and  she  was  actually  proceeding  to  explain 
the  word  to  Winifred  Durham,  who  naturally  as  a  prop- 
erly brought  up  child  was  ignorant  of  its  meaning.  I 
stopped  her,  of  course,  and  having  dismissed  the  other 
children,  I  tried  to  show  her  how  grievous  such  knowl- 
edge was  in  a  young  girl,  but  she  said  the  most  terrible 
things,  inexpressibly  painful  to  listen  to  from  one  of  our 
children,  and  then  she  actually  informed  me  that  she 
herself  was  illegitimate  and  not  ashamed  of  it !  I  know 
our  dear  and  reverend  mother  in  her  charity  has  from 
time  to  time  received  these  sad  victims  of  sin  into  our 
school,  but  they  have  never  been  aware  of  their  shame, 
and  Dorothea  seems  to  positively  glory  in  hers. 

"She  has  never  spoken  of  it  before,  and  is  not  likely 
to  tell  the  others.  Moreover,  I  have  always  found  her  a 
good  and  modest  girl,  and  I  do  not  think  she  would  ever 
try  and  corrupt  our  other  children,  but  the  fact  that  she 
holds  these  terribly  unorthodox  views  and  can  put  them 
into  such  shockingly  forcible  language  makes  her  to  iny 
mind  an  undesirable  inmate  of  our  school.  Her  point  of 
47 


48  DOWNWARD 

view  is  worldly  and  irreligious  in  the  extreme,  I  might 
almost  say  carnal,  though  I  hesitate  to  apply  such  a  term 
to  any  one. 

"I  thought  it  best  to  report  the  whole  matter  to  you. 
In  your  superior  knowledge,  with  the  help  and  counsels 
of  the  Priest  and  of  Reverend  Mother  available,  you  will 
know  best  how  to  act.  I  shall  pray  for  your  guidance, 
and  that  your  decision  may  be  blessed  for  the  child's 
good.  Your  affectionate  Sister  in  Christ, 

"AUGUSTINE  MARY." 

To  the  austere  soul  of  Sister  Francesca  the  affair  thus 
related  was  still  more  shocking  than  it  had  been  to  her 
kindlier  subordinate. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  in  conclave  with  Reverend 
Mother;  later  she  paced  the  cloisters  by  the  side  of 
Father  Morten,  and  experienced  some  irritation  (in- 
stantly suppressed  and  subsequently  expiated  by  prayer) 
at  his  warm  championship  of  the  child  of  sin.  She  had 
always  disliked  Dolly,  who  however  had  endeared  herself 
to  both  the  chaplain  and  the  Superior  by  reason  of  her 
glowing  vitality,  her  bright  face  and  ready  smiles.  The 
Reverend  Mother,  who  was  a  large,  corpulent,  much- 
loved  lady,  felt  she  would  miss  Dolly  from  chapel.  At 
the  Sunday  High  Celebration,  the  girl's  bright  mass  of 
golden  hair  had  often  taken  the  good  mother's  thoughts 
from  her  prayers.  She  wished  Francesca  was  not  so  bent 
on  having  the  child  removed,  but  certainly  it  might  be  a 
danger  to  keep  her  if  she  talked  so  indiscreetly.  What 
a  pity  it  was  that  the  thoroughly  satisfactory  girls  were 
often  so  dull  and  plain  and  their  appearance  so  seldom 
a  credit  to  the  school! 

It  was  the  Superior's  wise  rule  to  leave  the  manage- 
ment of  the  various  branches  of  the  convent  entirely  to 
their  different  heads.  Francesca,  she  said,  must  settle  it 
for  herself,  and  having  decided  this,  she  repaired  with 
the  slow  waddle  that  was  her  customary  gait  to  the  huge 
kitchen,  there  to  be  soothed  by  her  special  friend,  Sister 
Agnes,  who  queened  it  in  the  culinary  department. 


DOWNWARD  49 

The  next  day  one  of  Sister  Franceses 's  primly  worded, 
stiffly  written  letters  was  dispatched  to  Dacre  Hamilton, 
and  Dolly  to  her  great  joy  found  herself  installed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  winter  term  at  a  school  in  Eastbourne, 
where  she  was  allowed  a  bath  every  day,  and  speedily 
forgot  the  feeling  of  hunger  which  gave  one  "quite 
different  ideas  about  greediness." 

Fortunately  for  Dolly,  the  head-mistress  of  this  school 
was  a  wise,  well-read,  earnest  woman  of  the  most  modern 
type,  and  whose  educational  ideal  was  to  prepare  hex 
pupils  for  life,  and  not  merely  for  some  examinations. 
The  motherless  girl  could  not  have  fallen  into  better 

KND  OF  PAST  L 


PAET  H 


IN  the  basement  of  Meredith  House,  Wimpole  Street — 
"the  best  nursing  home  in  London" — there  was  a  small, 
shabby  room  looking  on  to  the  front  area  where  eight  of 
the  nurses  were  having  their  tea  one  fine  afternoon  in 
May. 

"When  a  man's  in  love  with  you,"  announced  Dolly 
Fitzgerald  from  the  aged  arm-chair  in  the  corner,  "he 
looks  at  your  lips;  when  he's  merely  attracted  he  looks 
into  your  eyes;  when  he's  indifferent  he  looks  at  your 
feet  or  your  figure,  if  he  sees  you  at  all!" 

When  Dolly  spoke  of  men  and  love  the  other  nurses 
listened  respectfully,  as  to  a  specialist — some  sneeringly, 
some  humbly,  but  all  with  interest. 

"Hence  the  extreme  importance  of  having  neat  feet," 
she  continued,  critically  regarding  the  very  pretty  pair 
which  were  elevated  on  a  cane  chair  in  front  of  her. 
"The  interest  leads  upwards.  Therefore  all  blessings  on 
my  kind  patient  who  has  just  presented  me  with  six 
pairs  of  silk  stockings,  knowing  my  weakness.  There  are 
still  some  noble  souls  left  in  this  damnable  world,"  she 
concluded,  cheerfully. 

"It's  a  damnable  world  indeed  when  the  Gold-Stick- 
in- Waiting  only  puts  two  teaspoonfuls  of  tea  in  the  pot 
for  eight  overstrung,  overworked,  full-grown  women," 
exclaimed  Nurse  Clifford  indignantly  from  the  head  of 
the  tea-table.  "This  is  the  third  time  I've  had  to  water 
the  pot ;  the  tea 's  not  fit  to  drink,  and  I  'm  simply  dying 
for  a  good,  strong  cup  after  the  awful  time  I've  had 
to-day  with  one  of  my  patients  delirious.  They  must 
51 


52  DOWNWARD 

make  it  stronger  than  this  even  in  the  workhouse,  and 
certainly  it  would  be  a  better  quality  there.  I  really 
shall  complain  about  it  to  Sister  Meredith  to-morrow!" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  sat  down  to  a  meal  with  you, 
Cliff,  when  you  didn't  'really  mean  to  complain*  to 
Sister  about  one  or  other  item  on  the  menu,"  said  Nurse 
Diekenson. 

"And  she's  never  done  it  yet,  has  she,  Dicky?"  re- 
joined Dolly,  settling  herself  comfortably  in  the  old  arm- 
chair, on  the  arm  of  which  her  cup  of  tea  was  balanced. 
"As  if  the  tea  or  the  meat  or  anything  to  do  with  one's 
stupid,  uninteresting  inside  mattered  two  tabloids — as  if 
we  didn't  hear  enough  about  insides  from  the  patients 
upstairs.  You  should  leave  your  inside  outside  when 
you  come  down  to  meals,  Cliffy,  dear,  and  not  disturb  the 
only  peaceful  time  we  get  in  the  day." 

"I  don't  know  which  is  worse,"  said  Nurse  Dickenson, 
pointedly,  "people  who  talk  about  their  insides  or  their 
outs." 

"Ins,  by  a  long  way,"  rejoined  Nurse  Brooks,  who 
shared  with  Dolly  the  good  looks  of  the  establishment. 
1 '  One 's  outside  is  at  least  interesting  to  oneself  if  to  no 
one  else,  and  one  can  tub  it  and  groom  it  and  dress  it  up 
nicely,  but  an  inside  is  a  necessary  evil  which  ought  to 
be  endured  and  not  talked  about." 

Nurse  Clifford  stirred  the  tea-pot  yet  again  and  smiled. 
Her  strong,  sensible  face,  with  its  shrewd,  kindly  eyes 
and  honest  mouth,  was  the  only  serene  countenance  in 
the  room.  Adela  Diekenson 's  sharp  face  was  lined  with 
discontent;  Molly  Morley's  little  pink  and  white  one 
was  merely  vacant.  The  hunger  of  the  mother-woman 
denied  both  mate  and  child  looked  from  Gertrude  Jes- 
sop's  wistful  eyes,  and  a  wild  unrest  from  Dolly  Fitz- 
gerald's brilliant  blue  ones.  Judith  Brooks'  beautiful, 
rather  wicked  face  was  marred  by  its  hard  sullenness. 

"Insides  don't  matter  a  bit,  except  when  they  hurt," 
Dolly  was  saying,  "but  outsides  always  matter  tremen- 
dously. It's  half  the  battle  of  life  to  have  the  right  out- 
side, and  having  got  it,  to  give  it  lie  proper  clothes  and 


DOWNWARD  53 

poise  it  at  the  right  angle.  Angles  are  awfully  impor- 
tant, too.  The  woman  who  stands  and  walks  and  lounges 
at  the  right  angle,  keeps  her  eyelashes  at  the  right  angle, 
especially  when  flirting,  and  arranges  her  hat  and  hair  at 
the  right  angle  is — well,  a  woman  bound  to  succeed. 
Colin  Lester,  for  instance,  would  never  give  me  theatre 
tickets  if  I  hadn't  mastered  that  little  matter  of  angles, 
and  he  wouldn't  be  the  most  popular  actor-manager  in 
London  to-day  if  he  hadn't  too.  Though  angles  don't  so 
much  matter  for  a  man." 

"It  must  be  nice  to  have  an  actor-manager  in  love  with 
one,"  said  Nurse  Brooks,  musingly.  "You  really  are  a 
clever  woman,  Fitz." 

"Of  course,"  rejoined  Dolly,  laughing,  "but  not  for 
that  reason.  Lester's  not  in  love  with  me;  his  leading 
lady  won't  let  him  look  at  any  other  woman.  How  can 
I  compete  with  the  beautiful  Marguerite  St.  John?  I 
wish  to  goodness  he  were  in  love  with  me,  and  then 
perhaps  I  could  get  on  to  the  stage  and  out  of  all  this." 

"What,  and  lose  your  allowance!"  ejaculated  Nurse 
Clifford;  "that  would  be  a  foolish  thing  to  do." 

"Not  if  I  can  make  more  on  the  stage.  I've  let  those 
brutes  of  trustees  order  my  life  for  ten  years,  for  the 
sake  of  having  some  one  behind  me,  as  it  were,  but  now 
I'm  a  woman,  twenty-five  and  getting  on,  it's  time  I  were 
independent.  I'm  not  going  to  lose  all  chance  of  really 
living  for  the  sake  of  a  miserable  £40  a  year.  Why,  I 
could  easily  earn  that  on  the  stage  as  well  as  the  value 
of  my  post  here,  and  have  a  glorious  time  into  the 
bargain!" 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  bitterness  in  her  words, 
and  Nurse  Clifford  looked  quickly  up.  "When  I  was 
twenty-five,"  she  said,  "I  thought  as  much  as  you  do, 
Fitz,  about  having  a  good  time— by  which  I  suppose  you 
mean  having  a  lot  of  ridiculous,  grand  clothes,  and  a  lot 
of  idle  men  to  take  you  out  in  them  to  places  where  more 
idle  men  and  more  ridiculously  dressed  women  do  con- 
gregate and  waste  their  lives!  But  now  I'm  on  the 
wronfi  side  of  forty.  I  have  a  very  different  ideal  If 


54  DOWNWARD 

you're  still  a  hard-working  nurse  in  ten  years'  time, 
my  child" — ("Heaven  forbid!"  from  Dolly) — "your 
night's  rest  and  your  afternoon  cup  of  tea  will  be  more 
to  you  than  all  the  chiffons  in  Bond  Street  and  all  the 
spoiled  fools  of  actors  in  London.  Take  my  word  for  it!" 

Silent  Nurse  Jessop  now  spoke  for  the  first  time. 
"Any  one  would  think  you  were  a  hardened  materialist, 
Cliff,  to  hear  you  talk  about  the  importance  of  rest  and 
cups  of  tea,  but  we  all  know  what  your  ideal  is,  and  that 
your  patients'  welfare  is  all  you  care  about." 

Dolly  had  been  pondering  over  her  senior  colleague's 
words. 

' '  But  I  don 't  mean  to  be  a  hard-working  nurse  all  my 
life — not  I!"  she  said,  suddenly.  Then  abruptly  she 
jumped  up  and  stared  at  herself  in  the  dingy  mirror 
above  the  hearth,  her  arms  resting  on  the  mantelpiece. 

The  rather  pert  bearing,  the  school-girl  expression — 
shallow  and  bold — that  had  previously  somewhat  marred 
her  beauty  had  now  disappeared.  Her  eyes  were  deep, 
mystical,  full  of  infinite  allure,  beneath  straight  dark 
brows,  and  the  soft  shadow  of  her  wreathed  hair.  Her 
hair  was  still  as  gloriously  golden  as  in  childhood,  and 
her  lips,  sweet  and  sensuous,  were  more  than  ever  siren's 
lips.  She  had  not  Valerie's  air  of  distinction,  and  lacked 
also  the  exquisite  spirituality  that  had  made  her  mother's 
face  so  noticeable.  But  she  drew  all  eyes  by  reason  of 
her  radiant  vitality,  her  brilliant  colouring  and  the  irre- 
sistible air  of  triumphant  gladness  that  a  realization  of 
her  womanhood's  power  had  brought  her.  She  radiated 
personal  magnetism,  and  her  mere  presence  often  cheered 
and  strengthened  the  sick  people  she  attended.  Doctors 
sometimes  attain  celebrity  by  a  similar  gift.  Her  lithe, 
beautiful  figure  showed  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  the 
sober  nursing  uniform ;  the  blue  cotton  gown  fitted  well, 
and  was  put  on  as  carefully  as  a  ball-dress  might  have 
been.  Her  collar,  cuffs  and  apron  were  always  spotless ; 
beneath  her  firm,  defiant  little  chin  her  cap-strings  were 
tied  in  a  coquettish  bow. 

"Twenty-five!"  she  murmured  to  herself,  but  appar- 


DOWNWARD  55 

ently  the  result  of  her  scrutiny  was  satisfactory.  "Not 
I!"  she  repeated,  facing  the  others  with  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her  head.  "Meredith  House  won 't  see 
me  ten  years  hence,  nor  yet  five,  nor  yet  one,  I  hope ! ' ' 

"Might  be  somewhere  worse!"  said  Adela  Dickenson, 
with  a  world  of  meaning  in  her  tone.  Perhaps  the  same 
thought  was  in  the  more  charitable  mind  of  Nurse 
Clifford,  for  she  looked  rather  wistfully  at  the  young 
woman  standing  in  that  defiant  attitude  on  the  hearth- 
rug. She  was  old  enough  to  have  out-lived  all  her  illu- 
sions, and  she  had  earned  her  own  living  for  thirty 
years! 

"My  dear  Fitz,"  she  said,  kindly,  "you  might  cer- 
tainly do  worse.  Meredith  House  isn't  a  Paradise,  as 
none  know  better  than  I  after  all  these  years  of  it,  but 
it's  a  safe,  well-ordered  establishment,  and  a  life  of  hard 
work  and  regular  routine  is  the  best  one  for  a  high- 
spirited  young  woman  without  home  or  parents." 

Dolly  langh«d  and  flung  herself  back  into  the  old 
arm-chair  with  a  careless  "Good  old  Cliff!" 

"I'm  sure  one  gets  very  tired  of  nursing,"  said  little 
Nurse  Morley  thoughtfully,  munching  her  bread  and 
butter;  "sometimes  the  patients  are  so  inconsiderate," 

"And,  oh,  so  dull!"  sighed  Dolly. 

"My  new  one,  Mrs.  Knowles,  isn't  dull,"  said  Nurse 
Brooks.  "I  get  an  immense  amount  of  entertainment 
out  of  her.  This  morning  she  actually  had  a  man  in  to 
wave  and  dress  her  hair  before  her  operation.  Then  she 
made  herself  up  most  beautifully.  She  had  the  sense, 
though,  not  to  stick  on  any  colour.  Then  she  told  me  to 
put  on  her  pink  silk  stockings  and  satin  shoes  to  match, 
and  I  had  to  sew  pink  ribbons  on  her  very  best  night- 
gown— they  're  all  poems — but  this  one  is  simply  a  lyric ; 
it  must  have  cost  pounds  and  pounds. ' ' 

"Sinful  waste,  when  so  many  are  starving  and  in 
rags, ' '  murmured  Nurse  Clifford.  '  *  She  might  have  been 
going  to  her  death,  for  all  she  knew. ' ' 

"Oh,  she  didn't  think  much  about  death,"  continued 
the  other,  "though  it  really  was  touch  and  go  with  her. 


56  DOWNWARD 

'Do  I  look  nice,  Nurse?'  was  the  last  thing  she  asked  me 
before  the  doctors  came  in.  Of  course  she  looked  ridicu- 
lous. And  when  she  was  coming  to,  she  talked  all  the 
time  of  'Julian-darling,'  though  her  husband's  name  is 
Tom." 

''Such  a  nice  husband,  too,"  put  in  Dolly,  "a  great 
big,  blue-eyed,  stupid-looking  sportsman.  I  saw  him  in 
the  hall  talking  to  Mr.  Billy;  he's  much  too  good  for 
her." 

"Sister  told  me  he  was  quite  beside  himself  with  anx- 
iety about  his  wife,"  said  Nurse  Brooks.  "And  Julian- 
darling  is  a  long,  lank  ape,  all  legs  and  black  hair;  he 
looks  like  a  weird,  up-to-date  poster.  When  he  called 
yesterday  afternoon,  she  made  me  put  on  her  best 
neglige,  and  then  said  sweetly  that  she'd  ring  when  she 
wanted  me.  He  stayed  nearly  two  hours.  Oh,  she's  a 
most  interesting  patient." 

"Captain  Clive  isn't  dull,"  said  Gertrude  Jessop,  with 
a  sigh — "he's  too  nice  for  anything,  so  manly  and  so 
gentle.  I  shall  miss  him  terribly  when  he  goes." 

"Oh,  he  isn't  well  yet,  my  dear.  You've  got  all  the 
nice  convalescing  part  in  front  of  you,  taking  him  out 
for  drives,  and  so  on,"  said  Nurse  Diekenson,  rather 
spitefully. 

"Ah,  why  didn't  they  give  Captain  Clive  to  me?" 
asked  Dolly.  "I  could  have  done  with  him  nicely  by 
way  of  a  change  from  all  these  elderly  crocks.  Lady 
Walter  is  very  sweet,  but  one  does  get  so  tired  of  one's 
own  sex.  I  wonder  if  Sister  will  ever  let  me  have  a  man 
patient  again." 

"It  was  rather  bad  luck  your  being  caught  flirting 
that  time  by  Sister,"  rejoined  Nurse  Brooks,  sympa- 
thetically; "she  has  such  a  cat-like  tread." 

"I  wasn't  flirting;  I  was  only  trying  to  amuse  my 
patient.  Sister  came  creeping  in — you  know  her  way — 
and  found  me  sitting  on  his  bed,  while  he  was  tying  my 
cap-strings  in  a  so-called  bow.  It  was  all  so  silly,  and 
dull,  and  harmless,  that's  what  annoyed  me  so.  If  he 
had  been  kissing  me,  then  perhaps  she  might  have  made 


DOWNWARD 

a  row,  on  principle — though  I  don't  suppose  I  should 
have  been  the  first  nurse  to  be  kissed  by  a  patient.  That 
was  nearly  a  year  ago,  and  I've  never  been  allowed  to 
nurse  a  man  since,  all  because  of  my  foolish  excess  of 
good  nature!" 

"What  did  Sister  say  when  she  found  you?"  asked 
little  Nurse  Morley,  cautiously — the  story  was  new  to 
her. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  want  to  know  too  much — be  thank- 
ful that  the  course  of  your  life  runs  along  a  straight  and 
simple  path,  and  don't  seek  the  pernicious  fruit  of  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge,"  returned  Dolly.  "Be  thankful  you 
were  born  different;  endless  woes  are  spared  those  for- 
tunate women  who  can't  flirt — and  wouldn't  if  they 
could." 

The  younger  girl  sighed  and  blushed.  When  she  had 
first  come  to  Meredith  House,  much  that  she  had  heard 
had  shocked  her  deeply,  but  although  she  disapproved 
of  them,  Nurse  Fitzgerald  and  Nurse  Brooks  possessed 
for  her  the  fascination  of  the  dangerous  unknown. 

"Never  mind,  little  thing,"  said  Nurse  Jessop,  kindly 
noting  her  discomfiture;  "you're  far  happier  as  you  are. 
Well,  it's  time  I  went  back  to  my  patient.  Aren't  you 
going  for  your  walk  now  ? ' ' 

They  left  the  room  together.  "She's  a  good  sort,  poor 
old  J.,"  said  Dolly  as  the  door  shut. 

"H'm,  rather  hypocritical,"  remarked  Nurse  Dick- 
enson. 

"Too  slack  in  her  work,"  said  Nurse  Clifford,  who 
judged  every  one  by  their  professional  capacity  only. 
Her  profession  was  a  mania  with  her. 

"Such  a  fool  about  men,"  sneered  Nurse  Brooks.  "I 
expect  she  worries  the  life  out  of  that  poor  fellow — army 
men  loathe  nurses  as  a  rule.  Well,  I  suppose  Sister  will 
be  swearing  at  me  if  I  don't  go  back  to  Mrs.  Knowlea 
and  relieve  her;  I  do  hope  she's  asleep  by  now." 

"What  a  sharp  tongue  that  girl's  got,"  said  Nurse 
Dickenson,  directly  the  door  had  shut  again. 


58  DOWNWARD 

"Yes,  her  cynicism  and  her  thin  lips  spoil  her,"  agreed 
Dolly,  "otherwise  she'd  be  quite  beautiful." 

"Oh,  no;  her  eyes  are  too  narrow  for  beauty,  and  her 
tongue  too  sharp  for  charm,"  remarked  Nurse  Clifford. 
"Dear  me,  what  an  uncharitable  lot  we  are!" 

"That's  what  I  always  tell  you!"  said  a  sweet,  low 
voice  from  the  doorway.  Another  nurse  stood  there, 
dressed  in  outdoor  uniform — a  tall  woman  with  a  plain, 
charming,  patrician  face,  which  was  illumined  by  a  de- 
lightful smile  at  the  shout  of  welcome  that  greeted  her. 

Helen  Tregonin  was  evidently  popular  amongst  her 
colleagues.  Dolly  pushed  the  new-comer  into  the  solitary 
arm-chair  and  sat  down  on  the  hearth-rug  at  her  feet. 
Adela  Dickenson  began  to  cut  bread  and  butter  in  deli- 
cate slices,  and  Nurse  Clifford  peered  anxiously  into  tile 
now  thoroughly  exhausted  teapot. 

"My  dear  ladies,  I  can  hear  you  half-way  down  the 
passage.  I  hope  you  haven't  been  discussing  Sister  or 
the  Gold-Stick  as  well?" 

"No,  we  haven't — only  each  other  as  usual,"  said 
Dolly.  "Now  take  your  cloak  off  and  be  comfy.  Cliff 
will  squeeze  some  liquid  out  of  the  teapot  for  you,  I  dare- 
say—I can't  call  it  tea,  but  at  least  it  will  be  wet  and 
warm." 

"That's  all  it  will  be,"  said  Nurse  Clifford.  "This  is 
one  of  the  Gold-Stick's  extra  economical  days,  and  she's 
been  phenomenally  mean  since  you  went  away,  Helen." 

"Now,  do  tell  us  how  you  like  being  at  Anthony's," 
urged  Nurse  Dickenson,  presenting  the  plate  of  dainty 
bread  and  butter. 

"Thank  you,  Dicky,  dear,"  said  Helen. 

"Yes,  do  tell  us  all  about  the  adorable  Anthony," 
cried  Dolly.  "  'Anthony  as  paterfamilias — a  sidelight 
on  tfce  Nurse's  idol.'  What  is  he  like,  chez  luif  Does  his 
gorgeous  manner  take  off  indoors  ?  Go  on  1 " 

Thus  flippantly  they  spoke  of  Dr.  Anthony  Eaven,  the 
distinguished  brain  specialist.  Most  of  his  patients  had 
their  unnecessary  rest-cures  at  Meredith  House,  and  Dr. 
Haven  was  an  object  of  much  interest  on  the  part  of  the 


DOWNWARD  59 

nursing  staff.  When  his  sister,  who  kept  house  for  him, 
fell  ill,  an  exception  to  the  general  rule  of  the  nursing 
home  had  been  made,  and  instead  of  Miss  Eaven  coming 
to  Meredith  House  to  be  nursed,  Helen  Tregonin,  the 
most  popular  nurse  on  the  staff,  had  been  sent  to  attend 
her  in  Harley  Street. 

"But  I  want  to  hear  all  the  Meredithian  news  first," 
said  Helen;  "it's  a  whole  week  since  I  went  away." 

"So  it  is,  and  I  think  you  might  have  come  round 
sooner  to  see  us;  you're  only  a  few  yards  off,"  grumbled 
Nurse  Clifford. 

"There  isn't  a  scrap  of  Meredithian  news,  everything's 
just  the  same  as  when  you  left,  even  to  Cliff's  squeezing 
the  teapot  as  usual, ' '  said  Dolly.  ' '  There 's  a  new  man  in 
No.  10 ;  Jessop  has  got  him.  She  says  he's  awfully  nice — 
in  the  army,  a  Captain  Clive." 

"We  don't  see  much  of  Jessop  down  here,  of  course," 
put  in  Nurse  Dickenson,  drily,  "except  when  Captain 
Clive 's  own  friends  are  with  him." 

"He  has  heaps  of  visitors,"  interrupted  Dolly,  "such 
smart  women  in  lovely  clothes.  Oh,  and  I  suppose  you 
know  your  aunt  and  mother-in-law-elect  is  here,  and  I  'm 
nursing  her!" 

"Yes,  Theo  told  me  his  mother  was  here.  It  was  all 
arranged  very  suddenly.  I'm  glad  you're  nursing  her, 
as  I  can't  myself.  She  suffers  so  terribly,  poor  darling." 

"Yes,  she's  very  ill,"  said  Dolly,  thoughtfully.  "Your 
young  man  has  been  to  see  her  every  day.  He  seems  to 
resent  my  being  in  charge  and  not  you,  and  gives  me  the 
most  sullen  glances.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  going  back 
to  her  now,  or  I  shall  have  Sister  ragging  me. ' ' 

"No,  don't  you.  I  want  to  see  her,  so  I'll  relieve 
Sister." 

A  chorus  of  remonstrance  greeted  Helen's  uprising. 

"Oh,  Tregonin,  don't  go;  you've  not  told  us  yet  about 
Anthony." 

"There's  really  nothing  to  tell.  Anthony  at  home  is 
exactly  like  Anthony  at  Meredith  House.  His  bedside 
manner  doesn't  come  off.  I've  scarcely  seen  him,  as  he 


60  DOWNWARD 

doesn't  seem  to  take  the  slightest  interest  in  his  poor  old 
sister,  although  he  has  no  other  relatives.  I  wonder  he 
hasn't  married  again." 

"Well,  he's  killed  off  two  wives — I  should  think  he 'a 
had  enough  of  it." 

' '  Still,  it 's  a  horrid  house  to  live  in,  in  spite  of  all  the 
luxury.  I  don't  wonder  Miss  Raven  is  so  frail  and 
melancholy;  there's  such  a  cold,  restrained,  unhomelike 
atmosphere.  There 's  no  love  in  the  house. ' ' 

"Anthony  does  his  loving  outside,"  said  Dolly,  cyni- 
cally. Nurse  Dickenson  laughed  her  thin,  little  laugh, 
but  Helen  threw  the  speaker  a  glance  of  reproof,  and 
Nurse  Clifford  uttered  a  remonstrating  "Now,  Fitz!" 

"I  must  go  and  see  my  aunt  now,"  said  Helen.  "No. 
2,  isn  't  it  ?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ? " 

"No,  thanks.  I'll  come  up  when  her  medicine  is  due, 
so  don't  you  bother." 

"Half -past  five,"  said  Nurse  Clifford,  looking  at  her 
watch.  "I  must  go  and  give  my  old  gentleman  another 
poultice ;  poor,  dear  old  thing,  he  does  hate  them  so ! 
Wait  for  me,  Helen." 

A  few  minutes  after  they  had  left  the  room  the  page 
came  in  to  find  Dolly. 

"Mr.  Theodore  Walter  to  see  Lady  Walter,  nurse.  I 
told  him  Nurse  Tregonin  was  here." 

"All  right,  Willy,"  she  answered,  carelessly.  "Leave 
him  in  the  parlor;  I'll  come  in  a  minute." 

She  rose  from  the  hearth-rug,  carefully  inspected  her 
face  in  the  glass,  smoothed  out  her  apron  and  pulled  the 
aureole  of  hair  further  out  from  her  face. 

"I'll  just  run  up  and  tell  Tregonin,"  she  said  aloud, 
and  left  the  room  slowly,  humming  a  tune. 

"I  wonder  why  Fitzgerald  prinks  so  carefully  just  to 
run  up  and  tell  Tregonin?"  Nurse  Dickenson  asked 
herself  with  some  amusement. 


II 

DOLLY  ran  lightly  up  the  basement  stairs  into  the  hall. 
For  a  second  or  two  she  stood  looking  up  at  the  first-floor 
landing,  then  crossed  the  narrow  hall  and  paused  before 
the  waiting-room  door. 

"I  wonder  if  he  will  still  scowl  at  me,"  she  thought  as 
she  turned  the  handle. 

Theodore  Walter  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
A  slightly  built  young  man  of  medium  height  and  boyish 
appearance,  few  would  have  supposed  him  to  be  twenty- 
six.  His  head  was  finely  shaped;  a  good  profile  and  a 
broad,  white  forehead  gave  him  an  appearance  of  dis- 
tinction. At  present  his  sensitive  face  was  darkened  by 
a  lowering  frown.  In  spite  of  his  habitually  sulky  ex- 
pression, women  would  call  his  face  "charming"  and 
''sweet,"  and  it  was  both  when  he  smiled  and  his  strange 
green  eyes  lit  up.  Deeply  set,  keen  and  passionate,  his 
eyes  were  curiously  attractive  and  they  rather  gained  in 
their  appeal  by  his  trick  of  half -closing  them.  His  dark 
hair  was  brushed  straight  back  without  a  parting,  but 
he  looked  better  when  it  was  in  disorder  and  fell  across 
his  forehead.  He  was  plainly  a  man  to  be  made  or 
marred  by  women — a  man  whom  women  could  love  much. 

The  cloud  on  his  brow  deepened  as  Dolly  entered  the 
room. 

"Zero!"  was  her  mental  verdict.  She  took  her  cue 
from  his  aspect  instantly  and  returned  his  constrained 
greeting  with  equal  coldness. 

"Lady  "Walter  is  a  little  better  to-day  and  has  been 
asking  for  you,"  she  said.  "Miss  Tregoniu  is  with  her, 
but  she  can  only  stay  a  short  time.  Will  you  corne 
upstairs?" 

61 


62  DOWNWARD 

"Thanks,"  returned  the  young  man,  evidently  ill  at 
ease  in  the  tete-cl-tete.  Dolly  turned  and  led  the  way 
upstairs  without  another  word. 

' '  One  moment, ' '  she  said  at  the  door,  going  swiftly  in, 

Theo  heard  a  sweet  and  very  different  voice  ask  gently, 
"May  your  son  come  in,  Lady  Walter?  Yes,  he's  here.' 
Then  in  the  same  cold  tone  to  him  as  she  reappeared, 
"Will  you  come  in,  please?" 

But  passing  him  in  the  doorway,  she  raised  her  eyes 
and  threw  him  a  swift,  indescribable  glance  which 
troubled  him  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  as  she  had  meant 
it  to. 


Ill 

A  CURIOUS,  complex  little  world  was  contained  in  the 
narrow,  five-storied  house  in  Wimpole  Street.  Outside 
it  presented  an  immaculate  appearance :  the  brass  fittings 
on  the  smart  green  door  shone  resplendently,  the  gay 
window-boxes  were  renewed  at  the  first  sign  of  wilting, 
and  the  steps  had  such  a  virginal  aspect  that  one  scarcely 
dared  to  affront  them  with  defiling  London  mud.  Inside 
there  were  the  patients,  the  doctors,  the  nurses — all  rep- 
resenting different  social  grades.  The  patients  were  of 
necessity  wealthy  people,  and  most  of  them  belonged  to 
that  glittering  circle  of  Society  which  requires  a  capital 
letter  to  express  it.  Through  their  luxurious  belongings, 
their  visitors,  their  conversation  and  occasional  confi- 
dences, the  nurses  caught  glimpses  of  the  dazzling  condi- 
tions of  lif«  at  the  top — glimpses  they  treasured  and 
shared  with  each  other  in  innumerable  talks,  for  all  these 
middle-class  young  women  were  intensely  interested  in 
the  life  at  the  top. 

No  less  were  they  interested  in  the  doctors,  who,  by 
reason  of  their  success,  were  also  at  the  top,  and  might 
therefore  be  laid  to  have  risen  above  the  middle  classes 
from  which  they  originally  sprang.  They  were  all  men 
of  distinction  of  the  genus  consultant,  and  were  hardly 
aware  of  the  nurses'  existence.  It  would  have  surprised 
them  to  know  what  keen,  pitiless  critics  were  concealed 
in  these  demure,  uniformed  young  women  who  seemed  to 
have  no  eyes  but  for  their  work,  and  who  stood  meekly 
aside  on  the  staircase  to  let  the  great  men  pass,  answer- 
ing, "Yes,  sir,"  and  "No,  sir,"  as  required,  with  such 
quiet,  indifferent  faces. 

The  famous  surgeon,  Hereford  Williams,  known  by  the 
63 


64  DOWNWARD 

nurses  as  Mr.  Billy,  would  have  been  amazed  and  not 
very  pleased  could  he  have  known  how  much  of  his  career 
was  familiar  to  these  young  women  whose  names  even  he 
barely  remembered.  Dr.  Walter  Gordon — familiarly 
called  by  the  staff  "Wally,  the  Guinea-Grabber,"  because 
he  did  so  little  and  charged  so  much — might  have 
laughed  at  Nurse  Brooks'  clever  imitation  of  his  "Two- 
guinea  Lightning  Interviews,"  as  she  called  them.  To 
him  Nurse  Brooks  was  merely  "the  red-headed  one,  devil- 
ish quick  and  smart."  Dr.  Anthony  Raven  would  have 
been  incredulous  had  some  one  told  him  that  the  young 
women  at  Meredith  House  knew  all  about  his  liaison  with 
the  Austrian  countess.  Yet  such  was  the  case. 

When  the  nurses  were  not  gossiping  about  the  patients 
or  discussing  the  doctors,  they  were  criticizing  each  other. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  talk  about;  they  had  neither 
the  time  nor  the  energy  for  intellectual  pursuits.  Their 
lives  were  hard,  exhausting  and  almost  entirely  devoid  of 
colour.  Before  all  of  them  loomed  the  terror  of  "getting 
on  in  life, "  as  is  the  case  with  most  women  who  work  for 
their  bread.  Their  ambition  was  centred,  according  to 
temperament,  on  either  finding  a  husband  who  would 
work  for  them  or  securing  a  well-paid  post  which  carried 
a  pension.  Their  horizons  were  bounded  by  the  patients 
and  the  doctors;  the  walls  of  Meredith  House  shut  in 
their  existence.  Small  wonder  they  were  petty  and  cen- 
sorious, and  that  they  occasionally  jangled  and  bickered 
— so  many  women  shut  up  almost  all  day  long  with 
themselves  and  their  sick  people.  Small  wonder  the  doc- 
tors, being  men,  assumed  such  large  proportions  in  their 
sphere  of  interest,  and  that  the  affairs  of  the  patients 
were  the  object  of  so  much  speculation — those  fortunate 
people  who  had  plenty  of  money  and  no  need  to  work. 

One  outside  interest  they  had  in  common,  an  intense 
love  of  the  theatre.  An  old  lady  patient  had  once  ex- 
pressed to  Nurse  Clifford  her  disapproval  of  so  much 
pltygoing  for  nurses,  and  wondered  why  they  indulged 
in  it  so  often. 

Nurse  Clifford  had  answered  briskly:  "Well,  you  see, 


DOWNWARD  65 

our  lives  are  spent  among  suffering  people ;  we  see  noth- 
ing but  illness,  hear  nothing  but  the  complaints  and 
details  of  ailments.  When  our  free  evening  comes  round 
— only  once  a  week — we  feel  we  want  to  get  right  away 
from  it  all.  At  the  theatre  we're  plunged  at  once  into 
another  world,  and  we  take  care  to  choose  a  play  which 
presents  a  gay,  bright  world,  full  of  laughter  and  amus- 
ing people.  No  problem  plays  for  us !  Our  daily  round 
makes  us  feel  that  the  problems  of  life  don't  bear  think- 
ing of.  Where  else  can  we  go?  Our  friends  don't  live 
in  the  West  End,  and,  unless  one  makes  an  appointment, 
it's  a  risk  to  take  a  longish  journey  in  trains  and  tubes, 
only  to  find  them  out.  We  know  the  shop  windows  for 
miles  around  by  heart.  We  get  quite  enough  of  them  in 
our  daily  walks,  and  looking  in  shop  windows  isn't  par- 
ticularly exciting,  unless  you  've  heaps  of  money  to  spend. 
Can  you  wonder  the  theatre  is  a  perfect  godsend  to  us, 
and,  after  a  visit  to  it,  we  can  go  back  to  our  work 
cheered  and  stimulated  with  something  to  describe  to  the 
others — something  to  make  us  laugh  when  we  remem- 
ber it?" 

The  old  lady  made  no  reply,  but  shortly  after  she  left 
Nurse  Clifford  received  by  post  a  pass  for  the  largest  box 
at  the  Drury  Lane  Pantomime,  and  the  seven  smiling 
nurses  in  uniform  who  packed  into  that  box  when  the 
night  came  were  ample  testimony  that  the  theatre  is 
indeed  a  blessing  to  thousands  of  hard-working  people. 

Among  themselves  Helen  Tregonin  was  perhaps  the 
most  fiercely  criticized  of  the  nurses.  As  a  woman  of 
birth  who  had  been  "presented  at  Court,"  whe  "knew 
people  in  Society,"  and  once  had  a  place  within  the 
chanced  circle  herself,  they  all  in  their  hearts  stood 
slightly  in  awe  of  her.  They  envied  her  her  superior 
social  standing,  though  they  would  rather  have  died  than 
acknowledge  it;  they  envied  her  her  distinguished  rela- 
tives and  the  beautifully  dressed  friends  who  sometimes 
drove  up  in  motors  and  carriages  to  pay  her  a  brief  visit, 
and  who  invited  her  to  their  houses  when  she  cared  to  go. 
She  was  the  only  engaged  woman  among  them  too,  and 


66  DOWNWARD 

all  but  Nurse  Clifford  deeply  envied  ker  her  handsome 
lover. 

Above  all,  they  were  jealous  of  that  indefinable  some- 
thing stamped  on  her  face  and  expressed  indelibly  in  her 
every  word  and  tone,  that  incomparable  cachet — the  seal 
of  an  intense  and  unassailable  purity.  Helen  was  a  good 
woman,  not  merely  innocent  or  erdinariry  nice-minded 
and  virtuous  such  as  afl  respectable  women  set  up  to  be, 
but  one  chaste  through  every  thought  and  every  heart- 
beat, such  as  few  women  are.  Her  fellow  nurses  knew  it 
well,  and  for  this  perhaps  they  envied  her  most  of  all. 

And  yet  in  spite  of  the  enormous  odds  against  her  by 
reason  of  her  superiority,  they  could  not  help  Hiring, 
almost  loving  her,  with  the  single  exception  of  Nurse 
Brooks,  whose  second-rate  Kttte  soui  was  antagonized  by 
Helen's  innate  goodness.  She  was  so  humble,  and  so 
friendly,  and  so  entirely  free  from  the  arrogance  which 
the  other  nurses  had  been  prepared  to  indignantly  resent 
and  pitilessly  punish.  If  she  had  been  handsome  as  well 
in  addition  to  her  other  attractions,  perhaps  this  combi- 
nation would  have  proved  too  much,  but  her  plainness 
according  to  all  the  accepted  canons  of  beauty  was  her 
redeeming  point  in  the  eyes  of  her  fellow  nurses. 

Yet  nobody  ever  thought  of  Helen  as  plain.  Of  nonde- 
script colouring  and  features,  there  was  something  in  her 
fine  face  that  stamped  her  at  once  as  a  woman  of  char- 
acter. Sorrow  had  traced  a  few  lines  there,  and  she 
looked  much  older  than  her  boyish  fiance,  although  in 
reality  but  three  years  his  senior.  Her  gentle  soul  shone 
through  serene  grey  eyes — such  helpful,  comforting 
mother-eyes — but  her  greatest  charna  was  undoubtedly 
the  possession  of  one  of  those  deep,  tender,  golden  voices 
of  that  rare,  refined  timbre  confined  to  few,  a  voice  whose 
simplest  utterance  thrills  and  enslaves  its  hearers. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Cornish  landowner  of  an- 
cient family,  Alfred  Tregonin  of  Tregonin.  From  her 
early  childhood  her  heart  had  been  divided  between  two 
passions — an  absorbing  love  for  her  cousin  Theodore 
Walter,  only  child  of  her  dead  mother's  only  sister — and 


DOWNWARD  67 

an  intense  pity  for  the  pain  of  the  world,  which  made 
her  resolve  to  dedicate  herself  to  the  nursing  profession. 
After  her  presentation  and  two  London  seasons — reluc- 
tantly submitted  to  by  Helen,  under  the  chaperonage  of 
various  relatives — the  death  of  her  father  had  made  her 
desire  not  only  possible  but  necessary.  Alfred  Trego- 
nin's  affairs  were  found  to  be  so  involved  that  to  the 
infinite  grief  of  his  sons  and  daughter  it  was  found  nec- 
essary to  sell  most  of  the  land  that  had  been  in  their 
family  for  centuries.  Helen  rejected  her  soldier-brother's 
offer  of  an  allowance  scraped  from  their  own  meagre 
incomes  and  gladly  settled  down  to  her  chosen  work. 

When  one  day  her  cousin  Theo  had  suddenly  come  to 
her  and  abruptly  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  telling  her 
almost  roughly  that  only  she  could  save  him  from  him- 
self and  make  a  decent  man  of  him — Helen's  cup  of  joy 
was  full  She  wept  for  very  wonder  that  Kfe  could  hold 
anything  BO  exquisite  as  tkat  moment  of  glad  surprise 
and  joyous  surrender. 

The  boy  so  long  beloved  in  secret  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  lips  for  the  first  time.  His  young 
face  was  haggard,  his  mien  solemn.  There  were  tears  in 
his  eyes  as  he  thanked  and  blessed  her  with  broken  words. 
It  was  a  strange  betrothal,  but  Helen  had  never  been 
wooed  before — sfee  did  not  miss  the  rapture  in  Theo.  To 
her  he  was  a  perfect  lever  and  she  the  most  blessed 
among  women. 


IV 

DOLLY  's  bedroom  at  Meredith  House  was  a  tiny  attic 
under  the  roof,  which  she  was  lucky  in  having  to  herself ; 
all  the  other  nurses  had  to  share  their  rooms.  The  floor 
was  bare  and  the  furniture  of  the  most  meagre  descrip- 
tion, although  it  comprised  everything  really  necessary. 

The  diminutive  mantelpiece  was  crowded  with  signed 
portraits  of  men,  many  of  them  representing  Colin  Lester 
in  a  variety  of  costumes  and  attitudes.  The  walls  "were 
covered  with  pictures  of  the  actor  cut  from  the  illustrated 
papers  and  roughly  pinned  up  with  tacks.  On  the  wall 
by  Dolly's  bed,  where  her  eyes  could  rest  on  it,  was  a 
large  photograph  of  her  mother  as  Juliet,  her  beautiful 
hair  hanging  loose. 

Dolly  was  looking  at  it  now  as  she  lay  full  length  on 
the  bed,  listening  to  a  gentle  sermon  from  Helen  Trego- 
nin,  who  sat  opposite  on  a  somewhat  rickety  wicker  chair, 
termed  "easy"  by  courtesy. 

Dolly  had  discarded  her  collar,  cap  and  apron,  but  still 
wore  her  uniform  gown  of  blue  cotton ;  it  was  unbuttoned 
at  the  neck  and  showed  her  fine  white  throat.  Her  hair 
was  loose  and  falling  in  confusion  over  the  pillow.  Helen 
looked  at  her  with  wistful  admiration. 

"So  you  won't  promise  not  to  go?"  Helen  asked, 
regretfully. 

"No,  I  can't.  Sorry,  but  I  really  can't.  Not  only 
have  I  made  the  appointment  weeks  ago,  but  I've  no- 
where else  to  go,  and  I  must  have  some  sort  of  a  change 
on  my  free  evening.  It  comes  seldom  enough,  goodness 
knows;  and,  besides,  I  can't  see  what  possible  objection 
there  can  be  to  my  dining  out  with  Colin  in  public.  A 
dnner  at  Kettner's,  at  half -past  six  o'clock,  in  afternoon 
68 


DOWNWARD  69 

costume — surely  even  the  Gold-Stick-in-Waiting,  or 
Sister  Meredith  herself,  could  find  nothing  wrong  in 
that!" 

"And  what  afterwards?" 

*  *  Haven 't  I  told  you  ?  Lester  will  drive  to  the  theatre ; 
he  must  be  there  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  as  he  has 
some  people  to  see.  He'll  drop  me  at  Charing  Cross  Hos- 
pital, where  I  shall  pick  up  my  friend  Ada  Stuart,  and 
we  shall  come  on  later,  in  time  for  the  show.  Colin 's 
given  me  a  pass ;  it  has  to  be  back  of  the  circle,  as  I  shan't 
be  dressed  for  stalls," 

' '  What  sort  of  woman  is  Nurse  Stuart  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  the  Nonconformist  conscience  in  the  flesh.  She's 
the  colour  of  flour — hair,  eyes  and  skin — and  her  figure 
is  like  a  sack  of  flour,  too.  She  was  with  me  at  Bart's, 
and  has  always  adored  me.  I  chose  her  for  a  friend, 
partly  because  it's  so  comfortable  to  be  with  another 
woman  who's  really  devoted  to  one  and  partly  because 
she's  so  intensely  respectable.  Who  could  be  otherwise 
with  that  colouring  ?  The  next  best  thing  to  being  pretty 
is  to  be  so  plain  that  you  can  be  useful  to  your  friends. 
There 's  logic  for  you,  Helen ! ' ' 

But  Helen  did  not  laugh.  "Cant  you  spend  the 
evening  with  her  if  you  must  go  somewhere  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"No,  I  should  think  not!  I've  been  shut  up  with 
women  all  the  week.  I  must  have  a  little  masculine  so- 
ciety. My  dear,  you  don't  know  what  a  time  I've  had 
this  week  or  you  wouldn't  suggest  such  a  thing.  Lady 
Walter's  case  requires  most  careful  attention,  as  you 
know,  and  old  Mrs.  Mosenstein  is  a  perfect  fiend  to  nurse. 
She's  led  me  an  awful  life  since  her  operation." 

"You'll  say,  as  usual,  that  I'm  narrow-minded,  behind 
the  times  aud  always  a  wet  blanket,"  Helen  began,  reso- 
lutely, meeting  Dolly's  aspersions  in  advance,  to  the  lat- 
ter's  great  amusement,  "but,  all  the  same,  I  don't  think 
it  right  for  a  young  and  very  attractive  woman  to  dine 
alone  with  an  actor  of  Lester's  reputation,  living  apart 
from  his  wife  and  whose  liaison  with  his  leading  lady  is 
an  open  secret.  If  it  weren't  for  this  last,  I  shouldn't 


70  DOWNWARD 

think  so  much  of  it.  There's  not  the  slightest  harm  in 
having  a  man  friend,  and,  as  you  say,  it  isn't  good  for  a 
woman  to  associate  only  with  her  own  sex ;  but,  dear,  you 
know  quite  well  that  there  can  be  no  question  of  real 
friendship  in  this  case.  A  man  like  Colin  Lester  can't 
mean  well  by  any  young,  pretty  woman.  Moreover, 
you're  a  nurse,  and  as  such  you  should  be  extra  careful, 
for  fear  of  bringing  our  profession  into  discredit." 

' '  Oh,  blow  our  profession ! ' '  returned  Dolly,  vigorous- 
ly. "My  dear  Helen,  I  became  a  nurse  because  I  needed 
bread  and  butter,  and  my  guardians  chose  this  way  of 
earning  it  for  me — not  because  I  desired  to  combine  busi- 
ness with  altruism!  You  chose  it  because  you  loved  it, 
and  Cliffy,  too.  It's  a  tremendous  source  of  satisfaction 
to  her  to  know  that  every  day  of  her  life  she  can  alleviate 
Bufferings  and  make  the  world  better.  But  my  motives 
were  purely  mercenary  and  compulsory,  not  an  atom  of 
sentiment  about  them.  I  don't  care  two  straws  for  my 
sacred  calling,  as  Sister  Meredith  always  calls  it. 

"It  always  annoys  me  so  to  hear  the  current  cant 
about  the  nursing  profession.  Nobody  applies  it  to  doc- 
tors. Their  calling  is  acknowledged  a  noble  one,  but 
their  private  lives  are  never  called  in  question.  As  a 
rule,  they're  far  too  hard- worked  to  be  anything  but 
moral,  but  there  are  exceptions.  Take  the  Guinea- 
Grabber,  for  instance.  The  way  he  looks  at  one  sometimes 
out  of  those  black  eyes  of  his  is  simply  an  insult.  Who 
cares?  People  simply  flock  to  consult  him!  Take  An- 
thony— one  of  the  fastest  men  in  London,  everybody 
knows,  and  yet  one  of  the  most  successful  and  sought- 
after  doctors.  No  stricter  standard  ought  to  apply  to  a 
nurse  than  to  any  other  working  woman  of  the  middle 
class.  As  long  as  she's  decently  behaved  and  does  her 
work  well,  what  the  devil — don't  fling  up  your  eyebrows 
so  at  the  useful  little  word  devil! — I  repeat,  what  the 
devil  can  it  matter  how  she  amuses  herself  in  her  spare 
time  ?  But,  no,  the  poor  wretch  must  be  something  holy, 
a  kind  of  combination  of  nun,  angel  and  the  medical  dic- 
tionary, and  yet  have  pleasing  manners  and  be  bright 


DOWNWARD  71 

withal.  Bright,  if  you  please!  Good  Lord,  I  wonder 
what  on  earth  we've  got  to  make  us  bright?  We  spend 
our  lives  in  hard  work  which  requires  our  whole  mental 
and  physical  strength  in  return  for  a  pittance  and  a  few 
spare  hours  a  week.  We  are  endlessly  in  the  company  of 
sick  people,  who  are  bound  to  us  by  no  tie  of  love  or 
kinship,  and  whose  groans  and  complaints  are  very,  very 
wearying.  Our  bodies  are  mere  machines.  We  must 
never  feel  any  pain  or  weakness,  we  must  never  get  tired 
or  cross  or  bored  or  depressed!  Our  souls  we're  not 
allowed  to  call  our  own,  on  account  of  the  great  impor- 
tance of  not  bringing  discredit  on  our  sacred  calling. 
Every  atom  of  high  spirits  is  knocked  out  of  us,  and  yet 
the  very  first  thing  people  require  when  engaging  a  nurse 
for  private  work  is  that  she  shall  be  bright  and 
cheerful!" 

Dolly  sat  up  again  and  thumped  the  pillow  indig- 
nantly. "I'd  just  like  to  give  them  a  taste  of  it,  when 
they  talk  about  being  bright — oh,  wouldn't  I!"  she  re- 
peated, excitedly.  "Why  can't  people  learn  c  :ce  for 
all  that  we  are  human  beings  first  and  nurses  afterwards, 
that  we're  not  nuns  or  angels,  but  want  a  little  fun  some- 
times just  like  any  other  woman,  to  keep  us  from  going 
melancholy  mad?" 

"But,  Dolly  dear,  surely  you  are  happy  enough?" 
cried  Helen,  quite  taken  aback  by  this  passionate 
outburst. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  my  blue  days,  but  on  the  whole  I'm 
happy  enough,  because  I  have  my  own  friends  and 
amusements  for  my  spare  time,  and  that  keeps  me  going, 
but  you  seem  to  think  I  should  forego  them,  and  it's  just 
that  injustice  I'm  complaining  about.  And,  of  course, 
you're  happy,  you're  going  to  marry  the  man  you  love, 
and  that's  enough  for  any  woman.  And  Cliff,  she's 
happy,  too,  because  she  really  loves  her  work,  and  would 
sooner  be  a  nurse  than  anything  else.  Besides,  Cliff's 
made  a  unique  position  for  herself  by  being  such  a  tre- 
mendously good  sort.  Even  the  doctors  notice  her,  and 
Wally  actually  asks  her  to  his  parties.  The  patients  fall 


72  DOWNWARD 

in  love  with  her  and  invite  her  to  their  houses,  and,  as 
you  know,  she  gets  more  invitations  than  she  can  do  with, 
and  has  lots  of  men  friends,  too.  Although  she's  plain 
and  middle-aged,  Cliff's  such  a  perfect  dear  that  men 
delight  to  pay  her  attention — the  hest  sort  of  men,  too, 
not  like  the  brutes  who  make  up  to  me,"  she  added, 
ruefully. 

"Well,"  said  Helen,  "go  on." 

"Well,  so  much  for  Clifford.  Morley  likes  the  work 
too,  but  she's  one  of  those  little  milk-and-water  nonenti- 
ties who  have  no  minds  to  make  up  on  any  subject,  so  are 
always  content.  Brooky  takes  her  pleasures  as  I  do,  and 
agrees  with  me  that  she  couldn't  stand  the  strain  of  the 
life  otherwise.  But  Jessop  and  Dickenson,  who  don't  get 
noticed — poor  souls,  how  I  pity  them!  No  wonder 
Dicky's  so  soured  and  suspicious.  Who  could  be  other- 
wise in  such  a  dull,  hard,  loveless,  joyless  life  as  she  has 
to  lead?  There's  nothing  before  her  except  endless  years 
and  years  of  work  she  takes  neither  pride  nor  interest 
in,  and  then  a  lonely  old  age  with  no  means  except  what 
she  can  save  now.  She's  already  too  old  to  get  a  billet 
which  carries  a  pension.  And  Jessop,  poor  girl,  her  lot 
is  a  little  better  because  she  likes  her  work,  but  I  think 
it's  most  pathetic  to  see  the  fool  she  makes  of  herself 
whenever  she  happens  to  get  a  man  patient — simply 
glues  herself  to  his  bedside  in  her  delight  in  having  a 
man  to  talk  to  at  last !  She 's  just  the  woman  to  make  a 
quiet,  home-loving,  devoted  wife  without  a  thought  out- 
side her  husband  and  children.  Look  at  her  hungry 
eyes — why,  she's  simply  overflowing  with  pent-up  ma- 
ternal instinct,  and  yet  it's  her  destiny  to  be  passed  over 
always!" 

Helen  seemed  overwhelmed  by  this  torrent  of  words. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  keen  on  your  work  too,"  was 
all  she  could  find  to  say.  "The  doctors  all  think  you 
such  a  clever  nurse, ' ' 

"Well,  yes,  I  always  do  my  work  heartily;  it's  my 
nature.  I  should  do  just  the  same  if  I  were  a  housemaid, 
but  that  brings  us  back  to  the  original  argument.  I 


DOWNWARD  73 

couldn't  stand  the  life  if  I  wasn't  able  to  get  away  from 
it  sometimes  and  have  a  thorough  relaxation.  But  I'm 
not  meant  for  a  nurse,  all  the  same.  I  like  a  complicated 
surgical  case,  or  a  really  bad  typhoid,  where  everything 
depends  on  the  nursing,  and  I  can  take  pleasure  in  tend- 
ing a  nice  man  or  an  interesting  woman — any  one  who 
is  friendly  and  congenial.  But,  oh!  how  deadly  sick  I 
do  get  of  those  who  are  not — the  endless  tale  of  their 
aches  and  pains  and  complaints  and  requirements ! ' ' 

"I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  it's  so  unprofes- 
sional, so  unwomanly!  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that, 
apart  from  the  possible  technical  interest  of  a  case,  or 
your  personal  interest  in  the  patient,  you  really  don't 
like  nursing?" 

"Certainly  I  don't." 

"And  don't  you  take  any  pleasure  in  relieving  their 
sufferings?"  asked  Helen,  eagerly.  "Is  it  nothing  to 
you  to  feel  how  much  you  can  help  and  soothe,  that  your 
power  to  do  this  is  a  glorious  one,  greater  far  than  the 
ability  to  attract  admiration  of  which  you  think  so 
much?" 

"Well,  really,  I  never  think  about  it  at  all.  I'm  sorry 
they're  in  pain,  of  course,  in  a  passive  kind  of  way,  and 
I  always  do  my  utmost  for  a  patient;  but  unless  they 
interest  me  I'm  very  glad  to  get  outside  the  room  and 
forget  them  until  the  bell  rings  again.  They're  always 
wearisome  and  very  often  repulsive  too,  and  sometimes 
they  lack  even  common  courtesy  towards  us.  In  the 
face  of  sober  facts,  all  highfalutin'  ideas  on  the  subject 
vanish ;  one  gets  hardened  after  seven  years  of  it,  espe- 
cially if  one's  life  has  no  softening  influences,"  she  con- 
tinued, rather  sadly.  "I  know  some  nurses  are  differ- 
ent ;  you  cry  over  your  patient 's  sufferings  when  you  get 
outside,  and  Cliff  keeps  awake  half  the  night  worrying 
about  them  if  anything  goes  wrong,  but  I  —  good 
heavens!  it's  nearly  five — we've  been  clacking  a  whole 
hour!" 

She  sprang  off  the  bed  and  began  hurriedly  taking  off 
her  cotton  gown. 


74  DOWNWARD 

"I'm  always  amnsed  by  the  utterly  false  ideas  of  hos- 
pital life  which  seem  to  obtain,"  Dolly  resumed  indis- 
tinctly, as  she  bent  over  the  looking-glass,  her  mouth  full 
of  hairpins.  "In  fiction,  for  instance,  the  pretty  nurse, 
same  as  the  pretty  typist,  is  a  stock  character,  and  all  her 
male  patients  fall  in  love  with  her.  In  real  life  the 
majority  of  both  classes  are  plain.  The  public  like  to 
favour  the  nun-angel-and-medieal-dictionary  theory,  and 
if  any  writer  ever  dare  to  paint  a  nurse  as  an  ordinary 
woman,  with  the  usual  faults  and  failings  of  her  sex, 
everybody  is  horrified,  and  there  are  protests  and  letters 
to  the  papers,  and  ail  sorts  of  silliness.  Why,  a  jour- 
nalist told  me  once  that  he  wrote  a  most  amusing  story 
about  a  rather  lively  nurse,  which  he  couldn  't  place  any- 
wfeere  because,  as  the  editors  told  him,  '  it  portrayed  the 
profession  in  altogether  too  frivolous  a  light!'  The 
heroine  waa  merely  a  flirt — quite  respectable,  mind  you 
— and  he  had  been  careful  to  bring  in  three  immaculate 
nurses,  miracles  of  piety  and  virtue,  by  way  of  balancing 
the  one  frivolous  one,  but  the  story  was  tabooed  for  all 
that.  He  had  been  a  medical  student,  and  he  knew  the 
ground  well  enough,  but  he  couldn't  sell  the  story,  and 
only  for  that  reason.  There,  isn't  my  hair  nice?  How's 
that  for  a  killing  side-parting!" 

She  drew  on  her  black  stockings.  "Look,  Helen, 
this  is  another  pair  my  last  old  lady  gave  me — sporting 
of  her,  wasn't  it?  Fourteen-and-a-half  round  the  calf; 
it's  a  pity  it  shonld  be  wasted.  I  should  look  stunning 
on  the  stage.  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  an  actress,  I  ought,  I 
ought!"  She  picked  up  her  white  frilled  petticoat  on 
either  side  and  did  a  few  dainty  steps  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  then  dipped  a  filmy,  lace-trimmed  one  over 
her  head  and  deftly  kicked  the  discarded  skirt  on  to  the 
bed. 

"What  a  fearfully  extravagant  petticoat,  Pitz!"  said 
Helen. 

"Well,  this  is  my  best.  I  must  wear  decent  clothes 
sometimes  to  keep  up  my  self-respect. ' ' 


DOWNWARD  75 

"But  the  one  you've  taken  off  is  beautifully  trimmed 
too.  You  must  spend  a  lot  on  your  clothes,  Fitz!" 

"I  haven't  a  lot  to  spend,  but  certainly  it  does  all  go 
on  clothes.  I  adore  clothes,  especially  frills  and  laces. 
Mother  always  said  it  was  the  underneath  that  mattered 
most.  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  sordid  petticoats,  though, 
no  doubt,  they  must  be  a  great  safeguard.  Messalina 
herself  would  have  kept  straight  in  Brooky's  black 
alpaca  and  red  flannel  abominations.  Perhaps  that's 
why  Brooks  wears  them!  Now,  don't  look  so  shocked,  it 
bores  me;  and,  besides,  I  must  break  out  after  a  whole 
week  with  old  Mrs.  Nebuchadnezzar- what  's-her-name ! " 

"I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  Dolly." 

"Well,  my  child,  you  ought  to  be  hardened  by  now; 
it's  nothing  to  the  things  Brooky  says!"  Her  voice 
came  indistinctly.  She  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  half 
under  the  bed,  groping  for  the  cardboard  box  which  held 
her  best  hat. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,  the  others  can  say  what  they  will. 
But  you,  Dolly,  it  always  hurts  nw  to  hear  you  talking  in 
that  loose  way,  because  I  'm  fond  of  you,  I  suppose,  and 
because  there's  so  much  good  in  you.  It  seems  to  me 
such  a  pity  that  you  let  the  bad  have  its  way  so  easily. 
You  say  risque  things  at  first  because  you  think  it  amus- 
ing, and  later  you  11  find  it  a  habit,  and  such  habits  wear 
away  all  one's  natural  refinement  and  sensitiveness,  all 
one's  innate  delicacy.  When  a  woman's  once  lost  that, 
she's  lost  almost  everything,  for  words  and  thoughts 
lead  on  to  deeds " 

Dolly  was  busy  fastening  her  pretty  light  dress;  her 
face  was  grave.  "Am  I  getting  coarse?"  she  was  think- 
ing. "Am  I  really  deteriorating — going  downward?" 

Helen  went  on,  speaking  very  earnestly  in  her  sweet, 
low  voice.  " — Deeds,  Dolly.  If  all  the  fallen  women 
in  London  to-day  looked  back  to  their  first  step,  whatever 
form  it  took,  they  would  find  that  before  that  again,  the 
very  beginning  of  it  all  was  a  running  after  pleasure, 
feverish  craving  for  excitement  for  its  own  sake,  an  in- 
creasing carelessness  of  speech.  Little  by  little,  from 


76  DOWNWARD 

small  things  to  great,  till  they  lost  all  the  beautiful 
things  that  could  keep  their  feet  on  the  upward  path,  all 
the  real  props  to  spirituality,  and  then " 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Dolly,  "the  beginning  of  it  all 
is  that  they're  seduced  by  some  brute  of  a  man." 

' '  They  get  to  that  in  time,  but  I  argue  that  that  is  not 
the  beginning :  the  mind  is  corrupted  first,  the  defences 
weakened.  As  a  rule,  a  woman  must  have  gone  a  long 
way  downward  before  that  can  happen  to  her,  before 
she  could  ever  permit  herself  to  be  in  such  circumstances 
as  to  make  it  possible.  I'm  speaking,  of  course,  of  women 
of  normal  temperament,  and  not  of  those  who  are  inher- 
ently vicious  in  the  first  instance;  of  course,  for  such 
there  is  no  help,  they  would  be  bound  to  come  to  it,  how- 
ever sheltered,  but  I'm  firmly  convinced  that  they  are 
in  the  minority  and  that  half  the  lost  women  could  be 
saved  if " 

"If  men  would  let  them  alone,"  said  Dolly,  fiercely, 
driving  in  her  hatpins. 

"No,  if  they  would  let  men  alone !  There  are  very  few 
men  who  don't  wait  for  the  woman's  signal.  She  may 
not  always  give  it  deliberately,  she  may  hardly  know  she 
has  given  it,  but  the  man  knows,  believe  me !" 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  asked  Dolly,  looking 
shrewdly  at  Helen,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  bed  to  put  on 
her  walking-shoes. 

"I've  learnt  it  by  degrees  in  my  twenty-nine  years. 
I've  been  through  two  London  seasons,  you  know,  but 
most  of  it  1  got  first  hand  from  a  woman — how  I  pitied 
her!  She  was  one  of  them,  and  was  in  my  ward,  when 
1  first  went  to  Guy's.  She  had  been  a  lady — refined, 
caret' ally  brought  up,  and  now  she  was  dying  alone  and 
in  great  anguish  of  mind.  She  used  to  tell  me  the  most 
piteous  tilings:  it  would  have  torn  your  heart  to  hear  it. 
It  weighed  fearfully  on  her  mind  that  she  could  do 
nothing  to  warn  the  thousands  of  thoughtless  girls  who 
were  treading  that  same  path  she  had  trodden,  without 
knowing  where  it  would  lead  them.  She  died  in  my 


DOWNWARD  77 

arms;  it  haunted  me  for  months  after.  I  shall  never 
forget  it" 

The  golden  voice  faltered.  Dolly  sat  on  the  bed, 
looking  at  her  silently. 

"And  then  I  learnt  a  good  deal  more  from  a  private 
patient  I  had  once.  He  was  very  well  known  in  Society, 
very  fascinating  and  handsome.  His  conscience  used  to 
worry  him  terribly,  for  he,  too,  was  dying.  Although 
quite  young,  he  had  a  great  deal  on  his  mind,  and  he 
used  to  say  it  helped  him  to  confess  to  me — oh,  such 
things,  Dolly !"  She  covered  her  face  for  a  moment  with 
her  hands. 

Helen  went  on :  "  He  seemed  to  find  a  great  comfort 
in  the  fact  that  he  had  never  harmed  a  good  woman,  and 
he  always  ended  his  questionings  with  the  same  speech : 
'  When  I  found  a  woman  willing  to  play  the  devil,  I  was 
glad  enough  to  play  the  devil  with  her,  but  I  always 
respected  the  right  sort.  That  will  be  taken  into  ac- 
count, won't  it,  nurse!'  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  such 
a  negative  victory  wouldn't  be  absolutely  taken  for 
granted,  but  it  was  the  only  comfort  he  had,  that  one 
little  piece  of  self-restraint  to  his  credit,  and  that  made 
it  so  pitiful,  I  thought." 

""Well,  it's  small  wonder  I'm  as  I  am,  considering," 
returned  Dolly,  brusquely.  Helen  had  moved  her  more 
than  she  cared  to  own.  ' '  Now  I  must  go ;  I  shall  be 
late  as  it  is.  Have  I  got  everything — purse — gloves — 
umbrella — no,  I  shan't  want  an  umbrella." 

"Better  take  your  cape;  you'll  be  cold." 

"What!  spoil  the  effect  with  a  horrid  little  uniform 
cape?  No,  indeed!  Gome  along,  Helen,  I  must  fly; 
you  11  go  and  see  Lady  Walter,  I  suppose?  Cliffy 's 
looking  after  her  this  evening." 

They  walked  down  the  narrow  stair  together.  "Good- 
bye. Thanks  for  your  warnings ;  I  know  you  mean 
well,"  Dolly  said  as  they  parted  at  Lady  Walter's  door. 

"I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  persuade  you,  but  perhaps 
you  11  see  I'm  right  soon,  and  that  Colin  Lester  is  no  fit 
friend  for  you.  Good-bye,  dear." 


78  DOWNWARD 

Dolly  ran  quickly  down  the  stairs.  The  page-boy 
looked  at  her  admiringly  as  he  opened  the  door.  "A 
hansom,  nurse?"  he  asked. 

"Avaunt,  Willy!  I've  told  you  not  to  tempt  me. 
You  know  my  weakness  for  cabs,  and  you  know  I  can't 
afford  them,"  and  holding  up  her  long  skirt,  with  her 
arm  at  the  correct  modish  angle,  Dolly  hurried  to  her 
rendezvous. 


DOLLY  had  applied  for  "theatre  time,"  which  en- 
abled her  to  stay  out  till  11.30.  The  dock  in  Cavendish 
Square  had  just  struck  the  kour  when  she  climbed  the 
stairs  of  the  nursing  home  that  night.  As  she  opened 
her  door,  Nurse  Brooks  called  softly  from  the  adjoining 
room: 

"Fitz!  Fitz!  Sh!  be  careful!  You  11  wake  Dicken- 
son,  and  she'll  snap  our  heads  off.  Well,  do  tell  me 
about  it.  Did  you  have  a  good  time?" 

"So-so." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter!" 

"Nothing." 

"Did  you  dine  at  his  flat?" 

"Of  course  not!  Don't  you  know  that  Miss  St.  John 
has  the  flat  next  door." 

"Well,  that's  a  fairly  palpable  arrangement!" 

"Exactly!  Probably  she  has  holes  bored  in  the  walls 
so  that  she  can  supervise  Colin '§  movements." 

"Well,  did  he  make  love  to  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  mocked  Dolly;  "men  of  the  world 
never  make  love  to  a  woman  when  tkey've  paid  for  her 
dinner,  do  they  ?  They  ask  her  out  to  talk  politics  and 
theology,  don't  they?  What  idiotic  questions  you  ask! 
Don't  you  know  what  an  actor's  like,  after  dinner,  in 
a  cab?" 

"No  such  luck!" 

Dolly  shivered  with  disgust.  "Sometimes,  Brooky, 
when  you  talk  like  that — really  I  hate  you!" 

"Goodness!  you  must  have  had  a  rotten  evening!  Do 
tell  me  what  has  happened. ' ' 

"Well,  I've  done  with  him,  that's  all." 
79 


80  DOWNWARD 

"What!  Why  ever — oh,  not  the  same  reason  as  you 
threw  over  Mr.  Galloway,  surely?" 

"Yes — the  same  reason,  only  Colin  was  a  beast  about 
it,  and  Galloway  at  least  was  desperately  in  love 
with  me." 

' '  Well,  Fitz,  I  do  think  you're  a  fool ! ' '  Nurse  Brooks 
sat  up  in  bed  in  her  excitement.  "Colin  Lester!  Why, 
you  could  go  on  the  stage  then,  and  he'd  simply  make 
you." 

"That's  what  he  said,  but,  thanks,  I  don't  want  that 
kind  of  making.  If  I  loved  him  it  might  be  different. 
Besides,  what  about  Marguerite  St.  John — she  does  love 
him." 

The  other  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  express- 
ively. "Oh,  well,  some  one's  got  to  go  to  the  wall;  one 
must  think  of  oneself.  But  Colin  Lester!  Oh,  Fitz,  you 
are  a  fool !  Why,  all  the  Society  women  are  mad  about 
him.  They  'd  simply  jump  at  him. ' ' 

"I  daresay  they  would,  but  I'm  not  a  Society 
woman!" 

"Well,  what  is  it  you  do  want?  You  won't  marry 
when  you're  asked  to,  and  you  won't  do  the  other  thing, 
and  you  don't  want  to  stay  here!" 

"Good  night,"  said  Dolly,  abruptly,  taking  up  her 
candle. 

In  her  own  room  she  collected  all  the  photographs  and 
prints  of  the  actor  and  made  a  bonfire  of  them  in  the  tiny 
grate.  This  childish  proceeding  seemed  to  ease  her  wrath 
a  little.  There  were  only  three  portraits  left  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  Dolly  examined  them  thoughtfully. 

* '  He  makes  a  bit  of  a  blank, ' '  she  thought.  ' '  Oh,  dear ! 
life  will  be  natter  than  ever  now.  No  more  theatre 
passes!  I  do  wieh  hs'd  waited  a  few  weeks  until  after 
my  holiday.  Perhaps  I'd  better  have  married  Harold 
Gordon,  after  all."  She  was  considering  the  portrait  of 
a  thin,  flat-faced  young  man.  "He  wouldn't  have 
minded  my  going  on  the  stage,  and  then  he  could  have 
written  me  up  for  aU  the  papers.  A  post  card  with 
'Well . '  on  it  would  bring  him  rushing  back  to  me.  But 


DOWNWARD  81 

no,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  him — and  poor  little  Freddy 
Smith ;  what  a  repulsive  photo  he  makes — always  in  a 
Norfolk  suit — to  make  him  look  bigger,  I  suppose — and 
leaning  on  a  gun,  which  he  couldn't  load  to  save  his  life, 
much  less  fire!  How  curious  it  is  ths  way  he  goes  on 
imploring  me  to  marry  him  year  after  year — as  if  I 
could !  Only  the  poor  specimens  of  men  have  asked  me 
to  marry  them  after  all,  both  at  the  hospital  and  since. 
I  don't  seem  to  attract  the  really  decent  men,  like  I)  acre 
Hamilton."  She  picked  up  the  third  photo.  "Dear, 
dear  old  Dacre;  lie  never  changes.  What  a  splendid 
friend  he  has  been  to  me,  but  he  doesn't  love  me  a  scrap. 
I  wish  he  did;  one  might  find  peace  with  him.  I  must 
go  and  see  him  soon.  Perhaps  he  will  help  me  to  get  out 
of  this  at  last,  if  he  sees  I  'm  really  in  earnest. ' ' 

She  leaned  out  of  the  open  window,  looking  across  the 
slate  roofs  of  Wigmore  Street  and  the  backs  of  the 
houses  in  Weymouth  Street.  All  around,  as  far  as  the 
horizon,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  roofs  and 
chimney-pots.  It  was  very  quiet,  the  subdued  roar  of  the 
West  End  was  stilling  at  last. 

She  looked  out  along  the  black  slates  and  up  at  the 
eternal  stars.  The  light  breeze  cooled  her  hot  cheeks; 
her  eyes  were  wide  and  sad. 

"I  wonder  what  will  become  of  me?"  she  said  to  the 
stars.  ' '  Oh,  I  wonder  what  will  become  of  me ! ' ' 


VI 

LITTLE  Nurse  Morley,  surprised  weeping  silently  in 
the  bathroom,  admitted  to  Nurse  Jessop  that  Fitz  had 
been  so  dreadfully  c-c-cross  with  her  about  giving  Lady 
Walter  the  wrong  hot-bottle,  she  c-e-c-c-couldn 't  help 
c-c-crying. 

"It's  too  bad!"  the  sympathetic  Nurse  Jessop  had 
confided  to  Nurse  Clifford  as  they  sat  on  the  stairs  occu- 
pied with  their  knitting.  "Fitz  has  no  right  to  let  her- 
self go  like  that,  and  upset  little  Morley  so.  It's  such  a 
trifling  matter  after  all." 

"Two  pearl,  two  plain,"  counted  the  elder  woman 
below  her  breath,  intent  on  the  grey  stocking  in  her 
hand.  "Yes,  Fitz  has  been  in  a  horrible  temper  all  the 
week.  When  she  isn't  downright  snappish,  she's  in  the 
blues  and  won't  speak.  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  now. 
It  makes  a  great  difference  to  us  all  when  she 's  like  this. 
Her  high  spirits  are  so  infectious,  and  she  has  such  a 
power  of  brightening  and  cheering,  don't  you  think? 
But  she's  never  really  been  the  same  since  she  went  to 
Monte  Carlo.  It  thoroughly  unsettled  her." 

Nurse  Morley,  still  tearful,  had  crept  down  the  stairs 
and  seated  herself  quietly  behind  the  others. 

"Monte  Carlo!"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  awe.  "Has 
Fitz  been  there f  With  a  patient?" 

"It  was  last  year,  before  you  came.  Haven't  you  ever 
heard  her  talk  about  it  ? " 

' '  No — how  lovely  for  her  1  I  suppose  she  went  with  a 
patient?" 

"Not  she!    She  went  with  some  theatrical  friends  of 

hers,  and  they  gave  her  a  splendid  time.     You  should 

have  seen  the  clothes  she  got  for  the  trip ;  only  a  few  and 

quite  simple,  but  so  effective !    Fitz  in  her  casino  dress — 

82 


DOWNWARD  83 

do  you  remember,  Jessop  ?  It  was  quite  a  revelation  to 
me.  Wasn't  she  lovely?" 

"She  can  look  very  nice,"  said  the  other,  with  her 
habitual  sigh. 

"But  how  on  earth  could  she  afford  it?"  burst  out 
little  Nurse  Morley,  excitedly. 

"Well,  she  saved  up  for  the  outfit  for  a  long  time.  She 
has  private  means,  you  know,  as  well  as  her  screw,  and 
her  lawyer  or  guardian,  or  whatever  he  is,  let  her  have 
£60  of  the  money  her  mother  left  her.  They  went  to  a 
comparatively  cheap  hotel,  but  it  only  lasted  a  few 
weeks  and  then  Pitz  came  home  alone." 

"Are  yon  sure  that  was  how  she  did  it?" 

"Morley,  child  I  have  you  caught  our  nasty,  suspicious, 
uncharitable  tone?"  exclaimed  Nurse  Clifford,  reprov- 
ingly. "  I  'm  surprised  at  you !  Yes,  I  am  quite  sure ; 
she  showed  us  the  lawyer's  letter.  She  knew  what  a  set 
of  cats  we  are  and  was  most  anxious  we  should  know  it 
was  all  above  board." 

"All  women  living  in  an  entirely  feminine  community 
become  cats,"  remarked  Nurse  Jessop,  with  unusual 
acumen. 

"Yes,  we  do  seem  to  need  masculine  leaven  to  keep  us 
sweet.  That's  one  reason  why  I  advocate  staying  in  the 
hospitals  or  taking  up  private  work.  The  atmosphere  of 
a  nursing  home  isn't  good  for  one's  soul.  But  Morley 's 
only  a  kitten,  and  she  ought  not  to  darelop  our  cat-like 
ways  for  years." 

"You're  not  a  cat,  Cliff,"  said  the  kitten,  shyly, 
caressing  the  other  woman's  arm  as  she  sat  behind  her. 
She  flushed  slightly  at  finding  she  had  used  the  familiar 
nickname  to  one  so  much  her  senior. 

"  Morley 's  nearly  as  old  as  Fitz,"  Nurse  Jessop  was 
saying,  ' '  and  Fitz  is  only  twenty-five. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  Fitz  was  seeing  life  at  fint  hand  when  she 
was  a  child.  She  could  manage  to  see  life  on  a  desert 
island.  If  you  locked  her  in  a  cellar  for  jean,  lifte 
would  somehow  get  through  to  her  from  some  grating. 
Morley 's  only  a  baby- woman.  Fitz  is  a — a " 


84  DOWNWARD 

The  nurses  all  looked  at  each,  other;  they  could  not 
think  of  a  word  that  would  just  describe  Nurse 
Fitzgerald. 

"Anyhow,"  finished  Nurse  Clifford,  "don't  forget, 
Morley,  that  Fitz  is  as  straight  as  a  die." 

"So  far,"  said  Nurse  Dickenson,  laconically,  from  her 
post  on  the  landing.  She  was  leaning  wearily  against 
the  wall,  waiting  for  Doctor  Walter  Gordon  to  emerge 
from  the  adjoining  room,  where  he  was  visiting  Nurse 
Brooks'  patient,  Mrs.  Knowles. 

There  was  no  regular  sitting-room  for  the  nurses  when 
on  duty.  They  had  their  meals  in  the  little  basement- 
room,  and  here  they  might  also  sit  during  their  off-duty 
time,  which,  however,  they  invariably  spent  either  in 
their  bedrooms  lying  down,  or  out  of  doors.  On  duty, 
when  not  actually  in  their  patients'  rooms,  they  were 
expected  to  be  close  at  hand,  and  they  generally  sat  on 
the  stairs  or  landing  where  the  electric  bell-indicator 
could  be  seen.  Whenever  a  bedroom  was  vacant  on  the 
first  floor  they  were  allowed  to  use  it  for  this  purpose, 
but  they  rather  preferred  the  stairs,  where  the  life  of  the 
house  generally  centred,  with  the  doctors  going  to  and 
fro  and  the  patients'  visitors  passing  up  and  down. 

"I  suppose  Fitz  had  lots  of  adventures,"  pursued 
Nurse  Morley,  evidently  fascinated  by  the  subject  of  the 
Monte  Carlo  trip. 

"Well,  I  expect  so,"  answered  Nurse  Clifford.  "She 
met  a  lot  of  very  gay,  queer  people — Colin  Lester,  the 
actor,  for  instance. ' ' 

"Was  that  where  she  met  him?     I  often  wondered." 

"Yes,  and  on  the  way  coming  home  she  struck  up  an 
acquaintance  with  a  fellow  traveller,  a  man  really  in 
Society,  you  know" — (the  actor-manager  would  not 
have  appreciated  the  fine  distinction  implied  by  the 
speaker's  emphasis  on  "really") — "and  he  went  simply 
cracked  about  her  at  first  sight. ' ' 

"How  do  you  know  he  did?"  asked  Nurse  Morley. 

"Yes,  how  do  you  know?"  sneered  Nurse  Dickenson. 

Mary    Clifford's    kindly,    honest    face    grew    severe. 


DOWNWARD  85 

"How?"  she  asked,  "because  Fitz  told  me  something  of 
the  trouble  he  gave  her.  She  said  he  was  charming,  and 
she  would  have  liked  to  keep  up  a  friendship  with  him, 
and  got  taken  to  Ascot  and  Banelagh,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  but  he  behaved  too  impossibly.  F;tz  isn't  the 
sort  of  woman  who  invents  tales  of  men's  attentions  to 
her;  she  has  no  need  to" — Dolly's  champion  looked 
pointedly  round  the  circle  of  downcast  faces — ' '  and  even 
it'  she  hadn't  told  me  so — do  you  suppose  at  my  time  of 
life  I  don't  know  the  sort  of  woman  who  makes  men 
lose  their  wits  1 ' ' 

"I  wonder  how  she  does  it!"  said  Molly  Morley,  in- 
voluntarily, then  reddening  again  at  having  spoken  her 
thought  aloud.  Nurse  Clifford  gave  a  short,  contemptu- 
ous laugh. 

' '  There 's  no  how — it 's  a  gift,  and  Fitz  has  got  it. ' ' 

"But  she's  not  so  beautiful — some  people  wouldn't 
call  her  beautiful  at  all,"  put  in  Nurse  Dickenson. 

"Perhaps  not,  but  beauty  isn't  necessary  always.  It's 
something  beyond  beauty,  that  will  last  when  beauty's 
long  since  dead.  Poor  Fitz!  I'm  sorry  for  her;  she's 
so  out  of  place  here.  She  ought  to  be  on  the  stage  or  in 
Society.  She  ought  to  be  queening  it  somewhere — 
somehow. ' ' 

' '  S-sh !  here 's  the  Doc. ' '  Nurse  Dickenson  assumed  an 
air  of  alertness  as  the  door  opened  and  the  somewhat 
portly  form  of  the  famous  specialist  appeared,  followed 
by  Nurse  Brooks. 

"That's  all,  nurse,"  he  said,  nodding  to  her. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  murmured. 

Nurse  Dickenson  had  opened  the  door  of  her  patient 's 
room  and  stood  deferentially  aside  for  the  doctor  to 
enter.  But  the  Guinea-Grabber  merely  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  put  his  head  over  the  screen  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  which  faced  the  door. 

"Well,  young  lady,"  he  said  in  a  deep,  jolly  voice, 
"no  need  to  ask  how  you  are.  Rolling  in  fat,  eh ?  She's 
taking  all  the  milk,  eh,  nurse?  That's  right!  Force  it 


86  DOWNWARD 

down,  whether  you  want  it  or  not.  Why,  we  shall  have 
to  enlarge  the  door  when  you  leave,  ha!  ha!" 

The  nurses  outside  heard  a  giggle  from  the  patient, 
who  was  undergoing  the  Weir-Mitchell  "cram-cure,"  as 
they  called  it.  She  was  a  perfectly  healthy,  though  con- 
stitutionally thin  young  woman  who,  professedly  taking 
the  cure  for  nerves,  was  in  reality  doing  so  in  the  secret 
hope  of  covering  her  collar-bones. 

Dr.  Walton  Gordon,  with  a  cheery  "Good-bye,  keep  it 
up !"  was  half-way  down  the  stairs  two  minutes  after  the 
patient's  door  had  been  opened  for  him. 

"He'll  call  that  a  visit  and  charge  a  guinea  for  it," 
said  Nurse  Brooks.  "The  Guinea-Grabber  is  really  out- 
grabbing  himself.  His  visits  get  shorter  and  shorter  the 
longer  he  has  the  patient  in  his  clutches.  At  first  he'll 
sit  down  by  the  bed  and  stay  about  fifteen  minutes;  it's 
gradually  reduced  to  five;  then  he  doesn't  sit  down  at 
all,  and,  lastly,  he  stands  in  the  doorway  and  says 
'Ha!  ha!"' 

"If  my  patient  stays  another  week,  it'll  be  shortened 
to  'Ha!'  I  suppose,"  said  Adela  Dickenson. 

"His  last  stage  is  just  to  put  his  head  in  at  the  door 
and  nod  silently." 

"Well,  he  knows  there's  nothing  whatever  the  matter 
with  them  mostly,"  said  Nurse  Clifford.  "Why  should 
a  man  like  Wally — a  real  healing  genius — waste  his  time 
talking  trash  to  those  fashionable  fools,  in  Parisian  night- 
gowns dotted  with  blue  ribbons  ?  After  all,  why  is  it  he 
hurries?  Because  he's  anxious  to  get  down  to  the  hos- 
pital where  people  really  are  ill  and  not  just  playing  at 
it  by  way  of  a  new  sensation !  (Heaven  knows  the  poor 
souls  must  be  hard  up  for  something  to  do  if  they  can 
only  get  a  change  by  stopping  in  bed  at  ten  guineas  a 
week ! )  He  never  hurries  when  any  one 's  really  ill. ' ' 

"No,  that's  true;  he  was  with  Mrs.  Knowles  nearly 
twenty  minutes,"  agreed  Nurse  Brooks. 

"Exactly,  even  with  beribboned  fools  he  knows  the 
difference  between  one  who  is  ill  and  one  who  isn't." 

A  bell  rang;  every  white-capped  head  was  raised  in 


DOWNWARD  8J 

the  direction  of  the  indicator.  "Mrs.  Knowles!"  ejacu- 
lated Nurse  Brooks,  as  she  hurried  off.  "I  wish  that 
woman  would  give  me  a  minute 's  peace ! ' ' 

"Here's  Sister,  with  Dr.  Raven,"  whispered  Nurse 
Morley,  looking  over  the  banisters.  All  the  women  invol- 
untarily straightened  themselves;  cap-strings  were  fin- 
gered, hair  arranged,  cuffs  pulled  down.  It  was  not 
their  employer,  Sister  Meredith,  who  evoked  these  mani- 
festations of  self -consciousness,  but  "Anthony  the 
Adorable." 

The  nurses'  faces  brightened,  a  wave  of  some  subtle 
electricity,  some  indefinable  strengthening  force,  seemed 
to  pass  up  the  stairs  with  Anthony  Raven.  They  rose, 
smiling,  as  he  went  by,  and  he  seemed  to  include  them  all 
in  his  genial  nod  of  greeting.  His  deep,  brilliant  blue 
eyes  glanced  from  face  to  face  in  passing.  Anthony 
Raven  never  missed  a  woman's  countenance. 

Sister  Meredith  knocked  at  Lady  Walter's  door  and 
the  two  passed  in.  All  the  nurses  sighed — even  Adela 
Dickenson  looked  pleased  and  bright. 

"Isn't  he  splendid!"  said  Gertrude  Jessop,  sentimen- 
tally. She  was  wont  to  say  it  about  four  times  a  week 
with  reference  to  Dr.  Raven. 

"Almost  too  splendid,"  agreed  Nurse  Clifford. 

"How  d'you  mean — (ioo  splendid'?" 

"Well,  I  mean  what  I  say — Anthony's  overwhelming. 
He's  too  good-looking,  somehow — his  exceptional  height, 
his  long,  absolutely  straight  back,  his  iron-grey  hair  and 
patrician  profile  and  those  wonderful  china-blue  eyes — 
well,  it's  altogether  too  dazzling  for  a  man.  It  needs  all 
his  tremendously  good  breeding  to  carry  off  such  mag- 
nificence, or  it  would  be  quite  a  vulgar  display." 

"How  absurd  you  are,  Cliff!" 

"No,  I'm  serious.    Don't  you  see  it,  Dicky?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  If  he  were  dark  he'd  look 
an  adventurer." 

"You've  just  hit  it!  His  colouring  saves  him.  A 
black  moustache  over  those  faultless  teeth  would  damn 
him.  Or  if  he  were  languid  and  haw-hawish  instead  of 


88  DOWNWARD 

full  of  vitality,  he'd  be  like  one  of  Ouida's  dreadful 
guardsmen. ' ' 

"He'd  be  less  overwhelming  with  an  indifferent 
tailor,"  said  Nurse  Dickenson. 

"  So  he  would, ' '  agreed  the  other.  ' '  His  faultless  tail- 
coats, and  perfect  trousers,  and  wonderful  boots  all  add 
to  his  overwhelmingness.  Fortunately,  he  has  one  weak- 
ness— his  moustache. ' ' 

' '  Weakness  ! ' '  echoed  little  Morley,  quite  bewildered 
by  the  turn  of  the  conversation;  "but  it's  the  most 
lovely,  long,  fair  moustache!" 

"True,  but  it  hides  a  bad  mouth.  I  know  Anthony's 
got  a  cruel,  sensual  mouth  under  his  Vere-de-Vereish 
moustache.  I  know  it  by  instinct,  and  am  grateful  for 
the  flaw.  To  me  a  moustache  is  always  a  flaw,  though  no 
doubt  it's  better  than  showing  the  wrong  mouth.  If  on 
the  top  of  all  his  other  glories  he  was  clean-shaven  with 
the  right  mouth,  well — he'd  be  too  impossibly  radiant." 

Suddenly  Lady  Walter's  door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
landing  burst  open  and  Dolly  marched  out,  banging  it 
behind  her.  At  this  unheard-of  breach  of  good  nursing, 
Mary  Clifford  rose  to  her  feet  with  an  involuntary 
"S-sh!"  anxious  for  the  professional  honour  of  the 
house.  At  that  moment  a  bell  summoned  Nurse  Jessop, 
and  little  Nurse  Morley,  noting  the  storm-cloud  on 
Dolly's  face,  thought  best  to  disappear  also.  Nurse 
Clifford  and  Dolly  were  left  alone. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  older  woman,  anxiously. 
Dolly  was  evidently  trying  to  control  a  royal  rage.  "It's 
Anthony ! ' '  she  muttered  between  her  teeth,  grasping  the 
rail,  as  she  leaned  on  the  banisters,  "and  it's  the  third 
time  he 's  done  it ! " 

"Done  what?" 

"Asked  me  to  leave  the  room  when  I'm  nursing  a 
patient  of  his!" 

"What!  .  .  .  Had  anything  happened?  Had  yon 
made  a  mistake?" 

"I  never  make  mistakes  with  a  patient!  No,  nothing 
happened.  I  was  standing  aside  as  usual — more  in  the 


DOWNWARD  89 

background,  perhaps,  than  usual,  since  Sister  was  there 
— and  all  at  once  I  noticed  he  was  watching  me — my 
reflection,  I  mean — in  the  overmantel  glass.  I  caught  his 
eye  twice,  and  he  said  suddenly,  seeming  irritated:  'I 
shan't  want  you,  nurse.'  Sister  put  up  her  eyebrows 
and  even  the  patient  looked  surprised.  Lady  Walter 
knows  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  first-class  nurse.  Of  course 
I  went  immediately. ' ' 

1 '  Strange ! ' '  murmured  the  other.  ' '  And  you  say  he 's 
done  it  before?" 

"Twice  before.  Once  when  I  was  nursing  old  Sir 
Thomas  Bartlet,  and  again  when  I  had  that  Miss  Lincoln 
who  died.  Twice,  and  always  entirely  without  apparent 
reason — just  as  if  I  got  on  his  nerves,  almost.  I !  I!" 
Dolly,  used  to  praise  as  a  nurse  and  homage  as  a  woman, 
felt  the  tears  smarting  in  her  eyes  at  the  unaccustomed 
slight 

"It's  certainly  very  odd,"  said  Nurse  Clifford.  "Is  he 
generally  nice  to  you?" 

"Well,  he  was  all  right  when  he  was  visiting  in  my 
ward  at  Bart's,  but  that  was  so  seldom.  The  first  time 
I  ever  saw  hiia  when  I  first  started  as  a  pro,  he  was 
awfully  nice,  asked  me  questions  about  myself  and  alto- 
gether made  such  a  fuss  about  me  that  the  ward-sister 
thought  it  necessary  to  snub  me  for  weeks  afterwards, 
for  fear  I  should  get  stuck  up  by  notice  from  a  consult- 
ant. But  be  was  never  like  it  again,  and  somehow  I 
fancied  he  seemed  annoyed  when  he  met  me  here  first, 
and  though  he  stares  at  me  a  good  deal,  I  always  get  the 
impression  that  my  presence  irritates  him." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  Impossible!"  said  Nurse  Clifford. 
"You're  making  too  much  of  it  altogether.  I  daresay 
he  wanted  to  say  something  private  to  Sister.'* 

Dolly  shook  her  head.  "It's  not  customary  to  dismiss 
a  nurse  from  th«  patient's  room  like  that,  as  you  well 
know.  I  shall  speak  to  Sister  about  it. ' ' 

Presently  the  senior  nurse  was  summoned  away,  but 
Dolly  was  left  leaning  over  the  banisters  for  a  few  min- 
utes only.  The  little  page-boy  from  the  half-landing 


90  DOWNWARD 

below  announced:  "Mr.  "Walter  to  see  Lady  Walter," 
and  before  Dolly  could  speak  she  saw  Theo  ascending  the 
staircase.  Her  reprimand  to  the  page  reached  the  visitor 
instead. 

"Why  didn't  you  wait  in  the  parlour?"  she  asked, 
curtly. 

"Perhaps  because  the  spider  wasn't  there,"  he  an- 
swered, unexpectedly.  Theo's  smile  was  irresistible;  it 
seemed  to  light  up  and  transform  his  habitually  sulky 
face.  Hitherto  he  had  given  her  half-furtive  looks,  hur- 
ried, uneasy  glances.  That  the  thought  of  her  had 
troubled  him,  Dolly  knew  well,  and  the  open  admiration 
for  the  first  time  visible  in  his  peculiar  eyes  was  in  itself 
enough  to  dispel  her  gloomy  mood.  His  unaccustomed 
gaiety,  moreover,  took  her  by  surprise. 

She  smiled  back  and  asked,  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Don't  be  so  severe  with  me,  Miss  Fitzgerald,"  he 
answered,  evading  her  question,  which  Dolly  straightway 
forgot.  In  her  present  mood  she  was  grateful  for  the 
"Miss."  Here  was  some  one  who  remembered  she  was 
a  human  being,  to  whom  she  was  a  woman,  not  merely 
the  nurse,  the  useful  machine  to  be  ordered  here  and 
there,  and  turned  out  of  the  room  to  suit  a  doctor's 
whim.  Theo  called  her  by  her  name,  too;  doubtless  he 
had  heard  it  from  Helen  or  his  mother. 

"Why  are  you  looking  so  pleased  all  at  once?"  he 
asked.  It  was  strange  how  suddenly  familiar  and  at  ease 
they  had  become,  these  two,  who  had  hitherto  hardly 
spoken. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Dolly,  lightly;  "it's  nice  to 
be  called  'Miss  Fitzgerald'  sometimes.  One  gets  tired  of 
being  'Nurse'  to  every  one,  just  an  official  with  no  per- 
sonality of  one's  own.  But  why  are  you  here  so  early? 
It's  very  irregular!  Dr.  Raven  is  only  now  paying  his 
visit  to  your  mother." 

"I'll  wait — but  not  in  the  waiting-room,  please!  It 
was  such  a  glorious  morning ;  I  seemed  to  want  to  talk  to 
some  one — some  one  nice,  and  tell  them  how  I  felt  about 


DOWNWARD  91 

May  in  London.  So  on  my  way  down  to  Chambers,  I 
felt  I  must  look  up  ...  my  mother." 

"I  see.  I  didn't  realize  that  Wimpole  Street  was  on 
the  way  between  Jermyn  Street  and  the  Inns  of  Court, 
or  wherever  it  is  barristers  go." 

"Oh,  any  place  one  wants  to  go  to  is  always  on  one's 
way. ' '  He  emphasized  the  word  ' '  wants. ' ' 

"Yet  he  knows  Helen  isn't  here,"  thought  Dolly. 

For  a  brief  moment  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes 
silently.  It  was  Theo  who  turned  his  glance  away  first. 
"How  did  you  know  my  place  was  in  Jermyn  Street?" 
he  asked,  hurriedly,  feeling  the  silence  difficult. 

"Lady  Walter  talks  of  you  a  good  deal." 

"I'm  moving  from  there  next  week.  The  atmosphere 
of  Jermyn  Street  is  too  prosaic ;  I  hate  the  place.  The 
Temple  suits  me  ever  so  much  better;  it's  one  of  the  few 
romantic  spots  left  in  London.  I've  managed  to  secure 
delightful  rooms,  with  a  wonderful  old  window — the  real 
old  stone-work  of  the  Elizabethan  period."  He  broke  off 
just  in  time  to  prevent  himself  saying:  "you  must  come 
and  see  it."  .  .  .  How  quick  the  thing  was  going!  How 
this  girl  with  the  aureole  of  brilliant  hair  made  him  say 
things  he'd  never  meant  to  say.  .  .  .  But  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  see  her  in  his  rooms.  His  fancy  pictured 
Dolly,  in  her  nurse's  costume  moving  about  his  sitting- 
room,  examining  his  pictures,  admiring  his  cherished 
window.  .  .  .  Then  he  imagined  her  in  different  clothes, 
in  evening  dress — some  subtle,  glittering,  exquisite  gown, 
that  would  reveal  a  white  throat  and  satiny  shoulders. 
He  pictured  her  clad  thus  lying  on  his  divan,  among  the 
cushions  of  blue  Persian  brocade,  her  feet  in  slender 
silver  shoes  peeping  out  from  the  swirl  of  her  skirts.  .  .  . 

He  was  looking  at  her  feet  now — just  visible  below 
the  short  uniform  skirt.  Slowly  travelling  upwards,  his 
glance  dwelt  on  her  neat  round  waist,  and  was  arrested 
by  the  beautiful  curve  of  her  bosom.  "What  a  figure!" 
he  told  himself.  .  .  . 

Her  eyes  drew  him  irresistibly.  Almost  unwillingly  he 
found  himself  looking  deeply  into  them,  and  this  time 


92  DOWNWARD 

unable  to  look  away,  until — inevitably — a  still  stronger 
impulse  drew  bis  eyes  to  her  lips.  .  .  . 

"Row  this  woman  could  kiss!" — the  thought  burned 
in  his  mind. 

Anthony  Eaven,  softly  opening  the  adjoining  door, 
saw  them  standing  thus  in  silenoe,  noted  Theo's  rapt 
expression  and  the  gleam  in  Dolly's  eyes.  He  walked 
past  without  a  word,  and  Dolly,  catching  the  furious 
annoyance  of  the  glance  he  threw  her,  stood  amazed. 

"Why  should  he  mind?"  she  thought.  "He  isn't  in 
love  with  me.  ...  It  serves  me  right,  though;  I'm  a 
brute  for  making  eyes  at  Helen's  man." 

Theo  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  sudden  chilliness 
of  her  manner,  as  abruptly  she  showed  him  into  Lady 
Walter's  room.  Sister  Meredith,  who,  fortunately  for 
Dolly,  had  not  followed  Dr.  Raven  out,  also  received  him 
coldly.  Visitors  in  the  morning  were  a  nuisance,  and 
an  irregularity  not  to  be  tolerated  in  her  well-conducted 
establishment  1 


VII 

THEO  WALTER  looked  a  man  to  be  made  or  marred  by 
women.  So  far  other  women  had  marred  what  his 
mother  had  striven  to  make. 

This  lady,  having  attained  some  distinction  as  an 
artist,  had  married,  somewhat  late  in  life,  Sir  Henry 
Walter,  an  eminent  barrister.  The  elderly  pair  hardly 
expected  to  be  parents,  and  they  hailed  the  advent  of 
their  child  with  great  rejoicings. 

Theo  inherited  the  talents  but  none  of  the  strength 
and  stability  of  his  brilliant  parents.  Concentration  was 
a  faculty  entirely  denied  him.  He  seemed  likely  to  prove 
one  of  those  undeniably  gifted  people  who  yet  never 
achieve.  The  temperament  of  artist  and  dreamer  which 
he  inherited  from  his  mother  conflicted  with  the  strong 
passions  of  his  father,  whose  profession  it  was  unwisely 
decreed  he  should  follow. 

The  dull  routine  of  law  studies  was  intensely  distaste- 
ful to  Theo,  steeped  in  poetry  and  romance  as  he  had 
been  from  his  earliest  childhood.  He  rebelled  passion- 
ately against  his  father's  decree,  but  the  stern  old  man, 
realizing  the  dangers  that  beset  a  youth  of  Theo's  char- 
acter, held  firmly  to  the  idea  that  hard  work  would  prove 
his  son 's  salvation.  Theo  vehemently  offered  to  ' '  slave ' ' 
—  (he  was  given  to  superlatives  and  exaggerated  forms 
of  speech) — at  Art  as  a  profession,  but  his  father  ridi- 
culed the  idea  of  "hard  work"  in  such  a  connexion.  In 
Theo's  case  the  connexion  between  law  studies  and  hard 
work  was  equally  absurd,  but  this  the  old  barrister,  who 
in  his  time  had  been  a  giant  for  work,  did  not  perceive. 

Theo's  mother  worshipped  him.  Her  bitter  disap- 
pointment that  the  longed-for  baby  did  not  prove  a 
93 


94  DOWNWARD 

daughter  was  followed  by  a  deep  elation  at  tlie  discovery, 
as  the  years  went  on,  that  the  man-child  she  had  borne 
in  middle-age  was  not  to  be  the  usual,  unimaginative, 
noisy,  boisterous  British  lad,  but  a  being  of  a  finer 
timbre  and  a  rarer  intelligence,  in  whose  dreamy  eyes 
she  could  read  her  own  longings  and  aspirations,  her 
own  thoughts  and  ideals — who  took  the  same  deep  delight 
in  the  subtle  arrangement  of  colours  and,  later  on,  of 
words — whose  soul  seemed  the  very  reflex  of  her  own, 
and  yet  who  was  manly  withal,  and  liked  boyish  games 
and  the  company  of  other  boys. 

Until  he  was  eleven,  his  mother  was  his  only  teacher. 
She  had  a  pavilion  built  in  the  garden  of  their  beautiful 
country  home,  and  there  he  had  his  lessons  and  his  play. 
The  walls  were  so  constructed  that  they  could  be  slid  into 
grooves,  and  whenever  the  weather  permitted  the  pavil- 
ion was  thus  turned  into  a  garden  room.  Climbing  roses, 
clematis  and  honeysuckle  covered  it,  and  beds  of  flowers 
cut  into  the  emerald  turf  around  made  bright  the  out- 
look from  the  latticed  windows.  Both  in  winter  and 
summer  the  choicest  flowers  and  plants  from  the  con- 
servatory were  saved  to  decorate  the  child's  rooms. 

There  were  a  few  good  pictures  on  the  walls,  chosen 
mostly  for  their  colour.  Lady  Walter  was  a  great  be- 
liever in  the  educative  value  of  colour.  Charming 
chintzes  covered  the  simple,  artistic  furniture,  and 
bright,  hand-woven  rugs  from  Donegal  lay  on  the 
ground.  In  the  night  nursery — where  his  mother  slept 
with  him  until  at  nine  years  old  he  had  decided  this  to 
be  "babyish"  and  begged  a  room  to  himself — the  same 
plan  was  observed,  and  Theo  opened  his  eyes  daily  on 
beautiful  pictures  which  coloured  his  dreams.  His  toys, 
books,  even  the  china  used  at  his  meals,  were  all  most 
carefully  chosen.  Nothing  ugly  was  allowed  to  be  near 
him,  and  no  grotesque,  red-nosed  policeman-dolls  or 
hideous  golliwogs  ever  had  the  chance  of  being  taken  to 
his  childish  heart. 

His  mother  taught  him  to  draw  and  to  paint ;  she  read 
with  him  and  implanted  in  him  a  scholarly  taste  in  liter- 


DOWNWARD  95 

ature.  His  knowledge  of  the  poets  at  twelve  years  old 
was  really  extraordinary.  In  natural  history  and  bot- 
any, too,  he  was  far  in  advance  of  his  years.  Little  else 
he  learnt,  but  as  he  grew  and  a  taste  for  refinement  and 
beauty  developed  in  him,  his  mother's  hopes  knew  no 
bounds.  All  the  heroes  of  romance  whom  she  so  loved 
were  personified  in  her  dream  of  his  manhood.  He  was 
to  be  Galahad,  Arthur — the  poet  for  whom  the  world 
waited,  the  painter  before  whom  the  world  bowed. 

When  he  was  in  his  twelfth  year,  Sir  Henry  suddenly 
announced  that  "his  mother  was  making  a  damned  fool 
of  the  boy,"  and  Theo  was  packed  off  to  Eton  before 
Lady  Walter  had  had  time  to  realize  what  it  meant  to 
her.  From  his  first  term  he  returned  a  young  savage — 
his  delicate  perceptions  brutalized  and  blunted,  his  inno- 
cent mind  defiled,  to  the  gentle  mother's  anguish  and 
despair,  though  his  father  was  apparently  well  pleased 
with  him. 

Later  Theo  regained  his  balance  when  the  flood  of  new 
impressions  were  past,  and  at  Oxford  his  temperament 
asserted  itself  permanently.  He  took  a  creditable  de- 
gree, wrote  very  pretty  verses,  played  the  violin  like  an 
angel,  and  his  paintings  gave  evidence  of  much  real 
talent.  His  good  looks  and  charm  were  undeniable.  At 
home  he  was  always  sweet-tempered,  always  the  loving 
and  devoted  son;  so  his  mother  accepted  the  inevitable 
with  a  sigh,  and  shut  the  door  of  her  heart  on  her  beau- 
tiful dreams,  striving  to  forget  as  they  faded  and  died 
one  after  another,  that  her  mind  had  ever  given  them 
birth.  The  bitterness  of  the  disappointment  was  soft- 
ened by  its  gradual  evolution  and  by  his  sincere  and 
tender  love  for  her.  As  long  as  he  remained  hers,  she 
could  forgive  him  much. 

But  when  he  left  Oxford  and  settled  down  to  read  for 
the  Bar,  the  poor  mother  saw  that  he  was  indeed  but 
little  hers.  So  as  not  to  be  parted  from  him  any  longer, 
they  left  their  country  home  and  took  a  house  in  town, 
somewhat  to  the  young  man's  annoyance.  Sir  Henry — 
since  maturity  a  stern  moralist — in  his  old  age  had  be- 


96  DOWNWARD 

come  an  almost  fanatical  puritan,  despite,  or  perhaps 
because  of,  his  own  wild  youth.  His  espionage  of  Theo  's 
goings  and  comings  was  the  cause  of  much  friction  be- 
tween father  and  son,  who  had  hitherto  been  the  best  of 
friends.  He  was  now  over  eighty,  but  his  great  intellect 
remained  unimpaired,  and  it  was  matter  for  astonish- 
ment that  the  wonderful  and  extensive  knowledge  of 
human  nature  which  had  contributed  to  his  success 
should  so  completely  fail  him  in  the  management  of  his 
son. 

The  unwise  and  galling  restrictions  which  he  exercised 
over  the  boy  had  exactly  the  contrary  effect  to  that 
desired.  Theo  was  not  allowed  a  latchkey,  and  one  day, 
owing  to  a  sudden  whim,  Sir  Henry  decreed  that  hence- 
forth the  house  must  be  shut  for  the  night  at  half-past 
eleven  o'clock.  The  result  was  what  might  have  been 
expected — Theo  spent  half  his  nights  away  from  home, 
and  became  drawn  into  a  very  undesirable  set  of  men 
and  women. 

Morally,  his  mind  was  a  haze  of  unrealized  ideals. 
Honour,  Truth,  Charity,  a  clean  life  —  all  things  good 
and  lovely  were  emblazoned  on  his  standard,  but  that 
standard  was  frequently  dragged  through  the  mire.  He 
talked  a  great  deal  about  Honour,  and  ' '  doing  the  square 
thing,"  but,  like  most  men  who  talk  thus,  he  lacked  the 
moral  courage  to  do  it  when  it  happened  to  be  painful, 
difficult  or  ridiculous. 

It  was  in  one  of  his  fits  of  wild  remorse  and  self- 
loathing  that  Theo  had  asked  his  cousin  Helen  to  be  his 
wife.  He  was  very  fond  of  her — she  adored  him  and 
always  had  great  influence  over  him.  By  the  parents, 
therefore,  the  engagement  was  regarded  with  great  satis- 
faction. Sir  Henry  Walter  declared  it  was  the  most 
sensible  thing  his  son  had  ever  done,  and  promptly 
raised  Theo's  rather  restricted  allowance. 

To  his  son  he  said:  "You've  made  me  happy;  I've 
hope  for  you  now.  Hard  work  and  Helen  may  cheat  the 
devil  of  you  yet.  Stick  to  the  law  and  keep  away  from 
women.  It's  no  use  asking  you  to  forego  them — women 


DOWNWARD  97 

and  dreams  are  in  your  blood.  But  be  true  to  Helen 
once  she's  yours — she's  too  good  to  play  with.  Stick  to 
the  law  and  stick  to  Helen." 

Lady  Walter  was  less  sanguine.  "Of  course  I  see  that 
the  boy  would  be  better  married,"  she  said,  "but  one 
woman  could  never  really  satisfy  him.  The  Flesh  and 
the  Spirit  are  too  much  at  war  in  him.  He  wants  three 
women  in  one — the  Ideal,  the  Mistress,  the  Wife:  one 
woman  to  worship — mysterious,  beautiful,  the  embodi- 
ment of  all  his  dreams ;  one  for  his  wild  moods — I  pray 
they  will  be  fewer  now ;  and  one  to  live  with  and  lean  on 
— the  strong,  brave,  tender,  self-reliant  helpmate." 

"H'm,  we'd  all  be  satisfied  with  that  variety,"  said 
the  old  barrister,  drily.  "I'm  sorry  for  Theo's  three, 
especially  the  third.  For,  as  he  can't  have  all  three  at 
once,  and  he'll  never  find  three  in  one,  it's  the  third  he 
must  have,  and  Helen's  the  woman.  The  lad  has  shown 
wonderfully  good  sense  for  once  in  his  life." 

But  the  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears;  there  was  pain 
as  well  as  joy  for  her  in  her  son's  betrothal.  Long  ago 
she  had  renounced  the  desire  that  he  should  be  hers 
only.  She  recognized  the  futility  of  such  hopes,  and 
told  herself  it  was  unexpected  happiness  to  share  him 
only  with  the  much-loved  niece,  her  dear  sister's 
daughter. 

Yet  now  she  wept;  varied  emotions  stirred  in  her. 
For  the  woman  who  was  to  be  Theo's  wife,  pity  and 
envy  were  strangely  blended.  Poor  Helen!  how  many 
disappointments,  how  much  anxiety  might  be  hers — 
heart-search  ings  innumerable,  bitter,  lonely  tears. 
Happy,  happy  Helen!  what  exquisite  moments,  what 
passionate  joy  would  she  know  as  Theo's  wife. 

It  was  settled  that  the  wedding  should  take  place  when 
the  young  man  was  called  to  the  Bar.  Sir  Henry  hoped 
this  arrangement  would  encourage  Theo  to  press  on  with 
his  studies.  At  the  same  time  he  drew  up  a  new  will, 
making  the  greater  part  of  Theo 's  inheritance  dependent 
on  his  marrying  Helen  and  continuing  in  his  profession. 
The  old  man  left  everything  to  his  wife  in  trust  for  their 


98  DOWNWARD 

son,  but  if  Theo  gave  up  the  legal  profession  within  five 
years  of  his  being  called  to  the  Bar,  his  portion  was  to 
be  limited  to  five  hundred  a  year.  In  the  event  of  the 
proposed  marriage  not  taking  place  through  any  fault  of 
Theo's,  he  was  to  forfeit  all  but  two  hundred  a  year. 
Helen  was  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  this  latter  clause. 

Sir  Henry  flattered  himself  that  he  had  thus  made  the 
best  possible  arrangement  for  his  son's  welfare  and  hap- 
piness. But  on  the  old  man's  death,  a  few  months  after, 
Theo  was  enraged  and  humiliated  at  discovering  how 
little  he  had  been  trusted,  how  completely  his  future  was 
taken  out  of  his  hands.  He  had  always  intended  to 
abandon  the  Law  and  devote  himself  to  Art,  as  soon  as 
his  father's  death  made  him  independent.  This  will 
tied  his  hands  more  than  ever.  He  did  not  expect  to  be 
called  to  the  Bar  for  another  year,  and  then  to  have  to 
continue  in  the  profession  he  hated  for  yet  five  years 
more — it  was  intolerable ! 

The  clause  relating  to  Helen  did  not  trouble  him.  He 
genuinely  desired  her  for  his  wife,  and  looked  forward 
to  the  marriage.  That  anything  should  occur  to  change 
his  attitude  never  entered  his  mind  for  an  instant. 


VIII 

WHEN  she  went  off  duty  that  afternoon,  Dolly  walked 
down  to  Dacre  Hamilton's  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,"  said  the  lawyer,  as  she 
entered  his  room  after  half  an  hour's  delay,  "and  even 
now  I  can  only  spare  you  ten  minutes.  I  've  got  a  meet- 
ing of  creditors  here  at  three  o'clock.  No,  if  I  were 
you,  I  wouldn't  have  any  more  of  that  money — I 
wouldn't  really!" 

Dolly  began  to  laugh.  "You  always  know  exactly 
what  I  want  to  see  you  about,  don't  you?" 

"Well,  it  must  be  nearly  three  months  since  you 
asked.  I've  been  expecting  you  these  last  four  weeks!" 

"Poor  Mr.  Hamilton,  what  a  lot  of  bother  I  do  give 
you  about  that  wretched  scrap  of  money  of  mine!  I 
wonder  you  try  to  stop  me  spending  it,  and  thus  lay  up 
more  future  trouble  for  yourself." 

"Well,  child,  I  want  you  to  keep  what's  left  for  some 
emergency,  and  not  waste  it  as  you  have  done  the  rest. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  can't  call  the  dancing-lessons  waste — it  may 
be  worth  hundreds  of  pounds  to  me  one  day  not  to  have 
forgotten  all  my  dancing !  And  my  Monte  trip — why, 
it  was  an  education !  It  was  the  one  bit  of  brightness  in 
my  hard,  dull  life.  The  anticipation  of  it  simply  kept 
me  alive." 

"And  the  retrospection?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it  did  unsettle  me.  I've  never 
been  contented  since." 

"I  can't  somehow  associate  content  with  you,  Dolly. 
You've  always  been  rebellion  incarnate  ever  since  the 
very  first  day  you  shed  tears  on  my  old  desk  here." 

Dolly's  eyes  softened.  "You  look  exactly  the  same  as 
you  did  then.  The  ten  years  have  only  made  a  few  nice. 
99 


100  DOWNWARD 

thoughtful  lines  on  your  face.  .  .  .  But  do  you  wonder 
I'm  rebellious?  I  seem  to  have  been  sent  into  the  world 
simply  to  have  all  my  desires  thwarted.  My  life  is 
simply  one  continued  thwart  on  the  part  of  the  powers 
that  be.  But  I  haven't  come  to  grizzle  about  that  now; 
it  isn't  your  fault.  I  came " 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  lawyer,  persuasively.  At  the 
same  time  he  looked  over  her  head  at  the  clock.  He  was 
really  fond  of  Dolly,  but  for  his  profession  he  had  a 
passion,  and  he  had  counted  on  a  few  minutes  to  look 
up  some  notes  before  that  meeting  of  creditors. 

"It's  simply  this.  I  can't  go  on  like  this  any  more. 
I've  just  about  come  to  the  end  of  my  patience — down 
to  bed-rock.  If  I  'm  to  go  on  as  a  nurse  at  all,  I  must  go 
back  to  Bart's  or  one  of  the  other  big  hospitals.  One  can 
breathe  there,  and  it's  something  to  be  a  part,  however 
small,  of  a  splendid  big  institution  that  really  stands 
for  something.  But  Meredith  House  stifles  me.  It  seems 
to  mean  nothing — to  be  simply  a  sham.  Half  the  pa- 
tients are  playing  at  being  ill,  and  the  doctors  accord- 
ingly play  at  healing,  and  we — we  don't  seem  real  women 
at  all.  But,  still,  I  don't  want  to  go  on  as  a  nurse, 
anyway " 

"Ah,  the  old  story,"  said  Dacre  Hamilton. 

' '  Yes,  but  it 's  going  to  end  now. ' '  Dolly  looked  at  him 
resolutely  across  the  desk,  her  brows  knit  in  her  earnest- 
ness. 

"I've  obeyed  the  trustees,  as  I  promised,  for  ten 
years,"  she  went  on.  "Mother  wouldn't  wish  me  to 
spoil  my  whole  life  just  for  the  sake  of  a  little  money. 
As  a  dancer  I  should  make  twice  as  much  as  I  should 
lose,  any  day.  ...  It  was  all  very  well  when  I  was  a 
young  girl;  naturally  mother  wished  to  safeguard  me, 
but  now  I'm  a  woman — six-and-twenty  next  birthday — 
surely  I  can  take  care  of  myself  now.  .  .  ? " 

"The  world  is  still  just  as  difficult  a  place  for  a  fasci- 
nating, friendless  woman  as  it  was  ten  years  ago." 

"Well,  thousands  of  other  women  fight  it,  and  I'm 
better  equipped  than  most.  Besides,  I'm  not  friendless. 


DOWNWARD  101 

I  know  lots  of  people  who'll  be  useful  to  me.  You've 
heard  of  Delia  Delarue?" 

"Most  men  of  the  world  have  heard  of  Diabolical 
Delia." 

"It  that  what  they  call  her?  Well,  mother  and  I 
knew  her  before  she  became  diabolical.  She  was  my 
friend  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"Really — but  she  must  be  years  older  than  you?" 

"No,  not  more  than  six  or  seven.  If  every  one  else 
fails,  she'd  help  me  to  get  an  engagement." 

"I  hope  the  others  won't  fail  thenl"  said  the  lawyer, 
earnestly.  "Besides,  if  the  club  talk  is  true — it  some- 
times is — Delia  is  in  rather  low  water  now.  The  man- 
agers are  fighting  shy  of  her.  Perhaps  you  know  her 
little  failing?" 

Dolly  nodded.  "It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  her,  as, 
of  course,  I  can't  stand  her  friends,  but  if  she's  in  low 
water  I  mint  go  and  see  her." 

"Who  else  would  help  you?"  asked  Hamilton. 

"Miss  Merry  Vavasour — Mrs.  Tom  Porter,  you  know. 
She  was  my  mother's  friend  and  has  always  kept  up 
with  me.  She  must  be  well  over  fifty  now,  but  you  know 
what  splendid  comedy  parts  she  still  gets,  and  perhaps 
next  year  she  and  Tom  Potter  are  going  into  manage- 
ment. If  so,  I'm  absolutely  sure  of  a  'shop*  with  them, 
though  their  farcical-comedy  line  wouldn't  be  mine. 
But  it  would  be  a  beginning.  And  ...  I  know  Colin 
Lester,  too.  He  might  help  me." 

"H'm.  .  .  .  I'd  rather  you  stuck  to  Miss  Vavasour." 

"Then  my  old  dancing-mistress  in  Berlin  could  easily 
get  me  an  engagement  there  or  in  Vienna,  if  I  decided 
to  go  in  for  dancing  only.  She  said  when  I  was  over 
there,  two  summers  ago,  what  a  pity  it  was  10  waste  such 
a  talent  as  mine. ' ' 

"Ha!  that  was  why  you  insisted  on  going  to  Berlin 
for  your  holiday  when  I  advised  the  seaside." 

"You  thought  it  foolish  of  me  to  spend  my  little 
money  on  more  dancing-lessons  and  my  holiday  in  hard 
work — do  you  remember?  Something  told  me  I  would 


102  DOWNWARD 

need  it,  thought  I've  always  done  what  I  could  to  keep 
up  my  dancing  for  that  very  reason. ' ' 

"Tell  me  briefly  what  you  propose." 

"My  long  holiday  begins  next  month.  I'm  going  to 
stay  part  of  it  with  a  married  friend  of  mine  at  Hamp- 
stead.  I  shall  talk  it  over  with  her  and  her  husband, 
and  I  shall  go  and  call  on  Delia  and  Miss  Vavasour,  and 
then,  when  I  see  some  definite  prospect  of  an  engage- 
ment, I  shall  give  notice  to  Sister  Meredith  and  retire 
from  the  nursing  profession  1 ' ' 

' '  H  'm  .  .  .  tell  me  one  thing  more :  what  especially 
has  happened  to  bring  you  to  the  '  end  of  your  patience ' 
aU  at  once?" 

"Nothing  special;  it's  merely  that  I  can't  stand  it 
any  longer.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  there  are  special  reasons, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  A  friendship  that  has  .  .  . 
meant  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  and  interest  to  me  for 
some  months  past  .  .  .  has  ceased,  and  I  feel  the  blank. 
Then,  again,  one  of  our  doctors  at  Meredith  House — Dr. 
Anthony  Raven,  the  nerve  man — seems  to  dislike  me  so, 
I  feel  I  don't  want  to  meet  him  nearly  every  day  .  .  . 
why,  you're  looking  quite  interested  all  of  a  sudden. 
D'you  know  Anthony?" 

"Er — yes  .  .  .  he's  a  client  of  mine." 

"Oh,  really?  Well,  he's  a  perfect  beast  to  me !  Why 
do  you  look  so  stern?  Is  it  the  word  'beast'  or  the 
thought  of  your  meeting-of-creditors,  who  are  shuffling 
their  boots  so  in  the  next  room?" 

"No — go  on;  what  about  Raven?" 

"Oh,  it's  he  you're  interested  in?  WeU,  that's  all 
about  him.  And  my  last  reason  is  that  I  want  to  live. 
Can't  you  understand  the  feeling,  Dacre?"  Uncon- 
sciously she  used  the  Christian  name  by  which  she  al- 
ways thought  of  him.  "I  want  to  express  myself,  to 
fulfil  myself — in  a  word,  to  live.  I'm  bursting  to  live!" 

"Yes,  I  understand  that,  my  child,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"I  sympathize  with  you.  Well,  I  haven't  time  to  go 
into  it  any  more  now."  He  glanced  again  at  the  clock, 
and  rose  as  Dolly  did.  "Come  and  dine  with  me  one 


DOWNWARD  103 

day  soon ;  we  '11  do  a  theatre  afterwards  if  you  like,  and 
discuss  the  whole  matter.  Of  course  I  must  do  my  best 
to  dissuade  you." 

"Of  course  ...  as  you  so  often  have  before,  only  this 
time  you  won't  succeed.  Oh,  I  was  forgetting  the  chief 
thing  I  came  for!" 

"Well?"  asked  the  lawyer,  patiently.  The  sounds 
from  the  adjoining  room  told  him  that  the  creditors 
waiting  for  the  meeting  were  getting  distinctly  restless. 

' '  The  second  part  of  my  holiday — I  get  five  weeks,  you 
know — I  wanted  to  spend  it  with  Madame  Herzi  in 
Berlin  and  have  some  more  dancing." 

' '  And  you  want  some  more  money,  I  suppose.  Do  you 
know  you've  only  £80  left?  I  came  across  the  figures 
one  day  last  week." 

"Really— only  £80?    How  it  does  slip  away!" 

"Trips  to  Berlin  and  Monte  Carlo  and  the  best  of 
dancing-lessons  can't  be  had  for  nothing,  young  lady." 

"Well,  money's  meant  to  be  spent!"  said  the  actress' 
daughter  easily,  and  the  lawyer  smiled  grimly  at  this 
evidence  of  the  theatrical  strain  in  her.  "Mother  would 
approve  of  all  I  've  done  with  the  £120  that 't  gone.  Still, 
I  don't  think  I'll  break  into  the  £80 — one  does  want  to 
keep  something  for  a  rainy  day.  But  my  allowance  will 
be  due  on  July  1st.  Could  you  .  .  .  would  you  mind 
advancing  me  my  allowance?" 

"Certainly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  but  do  you 
forget  that  if  you've  left  the  nursing  profession  by  then, 
there  will  be  no  July  allowance — that  there  will  never 
be  any  more  allowances  once  you're  on  the  stage?" 

"Oh,  dearl"  sighed  Dolly;  "oh,  dear!  .  .  .  Well,  I'll 
certainly  wait  till  after  the  1st  of  July,  anyhow ! ' ' 

As  Hamilton  was  about  to  open  the  door  for  her  she 
stayed  him. 

"Just  one  second  more.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Hamilton,"  she 
said,  persuasively,  standing  close  to  him,  her  face  raised 
to  his,  "tell  me — is  my  father  alive?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  The  lawyer  looked  both 
annoyed  and  troubled. 


104  DOWNWARD 

"I've  answered  that  question  before,"  he  returned, 
coldly,  "and  your  own  mother  answered  it.  "Why  will 
you  persist  in  disbelieving  us  both?" 

"Because,  if  he  isn't  this  mysterious  trustee,  whom  I 
must  never  approach,  who  is?  I  can  understand  my 
father  wanting  me  kept  in  ignorance  of  his  whereabouts, 
but  who  else  should  want  to?  How  many  times  I've 
begged  you  to  let  me  go  to  the  trustee  and  plead  for 
myself,  and  prove  to  him  how  cruel  and  unjust  these 
restrictions  are,  and  you've  always  said  it  is  impossible. 
It  can  only  be  impossible  for  this  one  reason." 

"Will  nothing  ever  convince  you,  Dolly,  that  your 
father  is  dead  ? ' ' 

"Nothing,"  answered  Dolly  in  her  most  determined 
manner,  "unless  you  can  show  me  his  grave  and  his 
death  certificate!" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  those  details  myself,  but  doubt- 
less you  could  ascertain  them  in  the  usual  way." 

"How  could  I  when  I  don't  even  know  his  name?  I 
only  know  that  I'm  not  entitled  to  it,"  she  retorted, 
bitterly. 

Hamilton  looked  keenly  at  her;  her  sincerity  was 
obvious.  He  saw  this  was  no  attempt  to  trap  him  into 
an  admission. 

"You've  known  that  all  these  years!"  he  exclaimed, 
startled  out  of  his  usual  impassive  bearing. 

' '  Of  course  I  've  known  it !  and  I  know,  too,  that  he  is 
alive,  and  I  know  he's  the  trustee — I'm  sure  of  it!  It's 
he  who's  doing  his  best  to  spoil  my  life,  having  ruined 
my  mother's  .  .  .  devil!" 

The  lawyer  cut  the  conversation  short  by  opening  the 
door,  so  that  the  clerks  in  the  ante-room  were  in  earshot. 

"We'll  discuss  it  when  you  dine  with  me,"  he  said, 
"and  now  you  really  must  excuse  me — these  gentlemen 
next  door  are  being  badly  treated.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  .  .  . 
Soames !  the  lift  for  Miss  Fitzgerald. ' ' 

"Thanks,  I  don't  want  it!"  said  Dolly,  fiercely,  as  she 
swept  past  the  astonished  clerk  and  out  of  the  office. 


IX 

ONE  morning,  about  eleven  o'clock,  Theo  and  Helen 
were  sitting  on  a  secluded  seat  in  the  park.  Helen  was 
still  in  attendance  on  Miss  Raven,  who  seemed  resolved 
to  retain  her  services  as  long  as  possible,  rather  to 
Helen's  dismay,  as  she  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  Mere- 
dith House  and  help  to  nurse  her  aunt. 

Dr.  Raven's  sister  was  an  exacting  patient,  and  though 
Helen  managed  to  get  the  daily  walk  which  the  rules  of 
her  profession  demanded,  she  had  no  other  time  to 
herself,  and  consequently  saw  little  of  Theo  in  these 
days. 

She  noted  now  a  change  in  her  lover — slight,  inde- 
finable, but  none  the  less  sure,  and  it  somewhat  dis- 
tressed her.  She  was  accustomed  to  his  moodiness,  his 
stormy  railings  at  fate,  his  frequent  fits  of  melancholy, 
alternating  with  sudden,  almost  violent  high  spirits,  dur- 
ing which  he  exhibited  an  unbounded  optimism,  an  in- 
fectious joie-de-vivre.  People  who  knew  him  only  in  his 
gay  moments  spoke  enthusiastically  of  his  charm.  For- 
tunately for  her,  Helen  was  acquainted  with  every  side 
of  his  complex  nature;  she  had  no  illusions  about  her 
future  husband,  and  cherished  him  the  more  perhaps 
for  his  faults.  She  was  not  analytical,  and  she  would 
have  held  it  disloyal  to  show  any  suspicion  of  her  lover, 
no  matter  how  peculiar  his  temper. 

All  these  drawbacks  of  his  she  was  wont  to  group 
together  under  the  label  " artistic  temperament,"  and 
having  thus  disposed  of  them  to  forget  them.  His  pres- 
ent preoccupation  she  at  length  decided  to  put  down  to 
his  anxiety  about  his  mother. 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  in  silence.  Theo  had  made 
105 


106  DOWNWARD 

this  appointment,  and  it  was  over  a  week  since  they  had 
met,  yet  he  seemed  to  have  little  to  say.  A  few  passersby 
looked  at  them  with  interest,  and  wondered  what  rela- 
tionship existed  between  this  sweet-faced  woman  in  hos- 
pital uniform  and  the  well-dressed,  good-looking  young 
man.  Obviously  he  was  not  a  patient.  They  might  p-er- 
haps  be  lovers :  in  that  case  the  frowning  preoccupation 
of  the  young  man's  Attitude  betokened  a  lovers'  tiff,  but 
a.gain  the  serene  face  of  the  woman  contradicted  this. 

Suddenly  Theo  said,  sombrely:  "I  wish  we  could  be 
married  at  once,  Helen." 

The  woman  flushed  rosy  with  pure  delight;  adoring 
eyes  were  turned  on  him. 

"Do  you,  dear  love?"  she  murmured,  the  tender 
emotion  making  her  voice  tremble  to  an  even  greater 
sweetness. 

"Yes,  Helen,  I  do — it  seems  ages  since  we  were  first 
engaged.  I  never  liked  the  idea  of  a  long  engagement. 
I  want  my  wife.  Helen,  I  want  to  feel  safe." 

The  joy  died  out  of  Helen's  face;  it  grew  perceptibly 
graver. 

"Theo,  dear,"  she  said,  touching  his  hand  gently,  "I 
thought  you  said  our  engagement  made  you  feel  'safe'." 

"So  it  did,"  said  Theo,  gloomily,  "but  we've  been 
engaged  three  years  now,  and  I  want  my  wife !" 

"Well,  it  won't  be  much  longer.  You  expect  to  be 
called  to  the  Bar  in  a  few  months,  don't  you?" 

' '  A  few  months ! ' ' — tbere  was  a  faint  note  of  alarm  in 
Theo's  voice,  the  weak  man's  fear  of  himself.  It  was 
fortunate  that  Helen  was  not  imaginative;  she  was 
spared  much  in  her  already  none  too  easy  position  as 
Theo's  future  wife. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  were  a  free  man!"  he  burst  out, 
passionately,  "and  not  hampered  by  all  these  cursed 
restrictions." 

Helen  sighed — she  had  heard  it  all  so  often.  She  said 
nothing,  all  had  been  said  before.  Her  sweet  mouth 
drooped  a  little  at  the  corners  and  her  eyes  grew  a  little 
sad.  It  was  not  proving  a  happy  meeting,  this. 


DOWNWARD  107 

"The  most  glorious  of  all  professions  is  open  to  me," 
went  on  Theo,  engrossed  in  his  own  grievance,  ' '  and  here 
am  I  compelled  to  grind  away  for  more  than  five  years 
still  at  the  dreary,  inconsistent  nonsense  of  Common 
Law — laws  made  by  asses  for  sheep.  It's  not  good 
enough,  Helen,  I've  a  great  mind  to  throw  up  the  whole 
thing  and  get  married  at  once  if  you'll  agree.  The  dear 
mother  would  be  generous  to  excess,  I  know,  and  in  the 
future  we  could  get  along  somehow  on  the  munificent 
£500  a  year." 

Helen  smiled,  encouraging  him  to  talk  on.  Like  most 
devoted  women  who  are  also  wise,  she  knew  the  value  of 
not  opposing  a  man.  Opposition,  argument  would  only 
fan  the  flame  of  his  determination.  Silent,  sympathetic 
acquiescence  would  not  only  please  him  but  would  prob- 
ably result — quite  without  his  consciousness — in  quash- 
ing the  whole  idea.  Men  of  Theo's  type,  unopposed, 
rarely  achieve. 

"No  doubt  I  could  earn  something  by  my  painting 
soon,  and  we  would  get  along  somehow.  Oh,  Helen, 
think  of  it — you  and  I  married  and  together,  and  noth- 
ing to  do  all  day  long  but  paint  and  write  and  love  and 
live — wouldn't  it  be  glorious?" 

' '  It  would  indeed, ' '  she  agreed,  gazing  fondly  into  the 
handsome,  eager  face  from  which  the  clouds  had  sud- 
denly lifted;  "but  think,  Theo,  what  numbers  of  days 
and  even  weeks — I  might  almost  say  months  there  are  in 
which  you  can't  paint  at  all,  when,  as  you  tell  me,  'it 
won't  come'.  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  he  cried,  impatiently,  "every 
artist  has  his  moods — you  can't  grind  away  at  painting 
and  poetry  like  you  can  at  law  and  mathematics!" 

"I  know,  dear,"  Helen  answered,  gently,  "but  then 
you  wouldn't  earn  much  if  you  didn't  work  hard." 

"Art  is  its  own  reward  and  a  divine  one — we  could  be 
happy  even  if  we  were  poor,"  he  returned,  loftily. 

"Oh,  Theo,  you  know  I  don't  mind  being  poor,"  she 
reproached  him.  "You  know  I  hate  a  society  life." 

"Think  how  happy  we'd  be  living  quietly  in  tbe  coon- 


108  DOWNWARD 

try" — he  drew  moving  pictures  of  simple  bliss — roses 
and  honeysuckle,  green  lanes  and  blue  skies.  In  his  imagi- 
nation it  was  always  summer  in  the  country.  Helen  could 
not  help  smiling  inwardly.  To  her  who  knew  him  so 
well,  the  idea  of  Theo  living  quietly  in  a  cottage,  content 
with  love  and  art  and  working  hard  to  supplement  an 
income,  would  have  been  amusing  if  the  utter  lack  of 
self-knowledge  it  betrayed  had  not  made  it  rather  pa- 
thetic. Theo,  with  his  expensive  tastes — pictures,  curios, 
first  editions — Theo  who  had  always  had  the  best  of 
everything,  and  couldn't  bear  erven  to  have  his  hair  cut 
out  of  the  mile  radius  from  Piccadilly — it  was  more  than 
ridiculous,  it  was  tragic. 

He  would  have  been  ready  enough  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  of  bright  summer  weather  in  an  idyllic  cottage 
amid  expensively  simple  surroundings,  painting  or  writ- 
ing as  the  fit  seized  him,  and  as  happy  as  a  boy  the  whole 
day  long.  Nothing  could  have  constituted  a  more  de- 
lightful holiday  for  him,  but  as  a  serious  and  permanent 
settlement,  Helen  knew  that  such  an  experiment  could 
only  end  in  disastrous  failure. 

Theo 's  glance  had  been  attracted  by  a  woman  walking 
towards  them.  The  face  was  as  yet  indistinguishable, 
but  his  eye  was  held  by  the  silhouette  of  a  beautiful 
figure  and  by  the  swaying,  graceful  walk,  as  if  her  feet 
scarcely  touched  the  ground.  He  reflected  that  all  the 
great  courtesans  he  had  seen  both  in  the  high  and  the 
half -world  had  had  that  wonderful  walk,  that  same  sup- 
pleness of  body  which  somehow  suggested  that  there 
were  no  bones  beneath  the  exquisite  curves  of  the  soft 
flesh. 

Was  she  a  great  courtesan,  he  wondered,  awaiting  her 
approach  with  interest — or  was  she  a  destined  one  or  not 
one  at  all?  Her  attire  was  perhaps  too  plain  for  that, 
although  there  was  a  distinct  chic  about  her  smart  morn- 
ing hat,  the  tailor-made  coat,  the  perfectly  cut  walking- 
skirt  swinging  free  from  her  feet  as  she  strode  joyously 
along.  .  .  . 

"Joyous"  was  the  word  that  best  expressed  her,  he 


DOWNWARD  109 

thought.  No,  surely  not  a  courtesan.  "I  should  like  to 
paint  her,"  he  murmured  aloud — "as  'A  Twentieth- 
century  Diana,'  say." 

4 '  Who  ?    Where  ? ' '  asked  Helen. 

"This  woman  coming — doesn't  she  walk  beautifully?" 
The  goddess  was  now  close  upon  them. 

"Why,  I  believe—why,  yes— it's  Dolly!" 

"DoOyl" 

"One  of  our  nurses — why,  you  know  her;  she's  nurs 
ing  Aunt  Violet." 

"Yes,  I  do  know  her."  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
approaching  form — the  tenor  01  his  previous  thoughts 
disturbed  him. 

"  'And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold!'  "  he 
murmured.  "But  she  looks  so  different  out  of  uniform." 

"She  always  dresses  beautifully,"  remarked  Helen. 
"How  bright  and  smart  she  looks.  1  expect  she's  off  to 
some  rendezvous." 

"Ah!" 

Dolly  had  seen  them,  and  raised  her  eyebrows  in  smil- 
ing surprise.  She  would  have  passed  with  her  greeting, 
but  Helen  stopped  her.  For  &  few  minutes  she  chatted 
with  them. 

"It's  my  'long  day'  off  duty;  you'll  never  guess  where 
I'm  going." 

"You're  up  to  some  mischief,  I'm  sure,"  laughed 
Helen. 

"Do  I  look  so  wicked?"  returned  Dolly. 

"Most  dangerous,"  Theo  said,  and  he  meant  it. 
"You're  going  to  lunch  with  some  lucky  man?" 

"Both  wrong.  I'm  going  to  lunch  with  an  unlucky 
woman,  and  then  to  the  Exhibition  with  her,  and  then 
to  dinner  with  another  friend — my  solicitor.  .  .  .  No,  I 
shan't  tell  you  who  the  woman  is,  you'd  both  be  hor- 
rified! Yes,  I  will,  though  ...  it's  Delia  Delarue!" 
She  hurried  off,  smiling  back  at  them  over  her  shoulder. 
Helen  remarked  that  she  was  none  the  wiser,  but  Theo's 
brow  was  once  more  gloomy. 

"Who  is  it?    Oh,  a  very  notorious  woman— a  has-been 


110  DOWNWARD 

of  musical  comedy,  done  for  now.    Why  on  earth  does 
your  friend  want  to  mix  with  that  crowd  ? ' ' 

He  would  not  own  to  himself  the  astonishing  truth 
that  he  was  fiercely  jealous,  concerned,  about  this  girl — 
a  stranger,  the  friend  of  his  betrothed.  The  thought  of 
Dolly  remained  with  him  all  the  afternoon,  and  he  was 
haunted  by  some  lines  of  Rosetti's: 

"The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  .  .  . 
Lo!  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  around  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck  bent 
And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair!" 

And  to  himself  he  repeated  many  times : 

"  ' And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold.'  " 


A  FLAT  at  the  top  of  a  block  in  a  Knightsbridge  back 
street  was  Dolly's  destination.  Time  was,  not  so  long 
ago,  when  Delia  Delarue  in  the  height  of  her  fame  (or 
infamy?)  had  queened  it  in  a  house  in  Mayfair.  Now, 
in  her  decadence,  she  still  clung  to  what  she  called  a 
smart  address,  and  preferred  a  box  in  Knightsbridge  to 
a  commodious  house  in  Bloomsbury. 

Dolly  found  the  block  with  some  difficulty  and  began 
the  long  ascent ;  the  modest  mansions  did  not  boast  a  lift. 
It  was  four  years  since  she  had  seen  her  former  friend, 
and  even  at  that  time  Delia  was  becoming  socially  im- 
possible to  Dolly's  ideas,  though  at  the  height  of  her 
stage  popularity.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine  what  she 
had  become  now  that  her  "little  failing"  had  reached 
the  extreme  point  when  managers  fight  shy.  Dolly  felt 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  get  the  first  greetings  over. 

She  rang  the  bell  and  waited.  Sounds  of  a  loud,  angry 
voice  could  be  heard.  Nobody  came.  She  rang  again. 
There  was  the  noise  of  a  door  opening,  and  the  angry 
voice,  now  recognizable  as  Delia's,  shouted:  "Why  don't 
you  go  to  the  door,  you  swine?" 

A  murmur,  a  well-bred  masculine  voice  was  audible 
apparently  in  an  attempt  at  soothing.  Steps  were  heard 
— the  man  was  seemingly  following,  still  expostulating, 
and  Dolly  caught  the  words  whispered  quite  near  to  her : 
"I've  told  you  Albert's  quite  incapable  —  why  waste 
time  shouting  for  him?" 

The  speaker  was  enjoined  to  go  to  Hell,  and  appar- 
ently retired  on  that.  Delia's  voice  was  again  audible, 
"Jeanette,  why  can't  you  go  to  the  door — don't  you 
hear  the  bell,  damn  you  1 ' ' 

111 


112  DOWNWARD 

"Vat!  and  spoil  ze  omelette?"  a  shrill  voice  retorted, 
''I  vill  not!" 

A  subdued  murmur  of  "Brutes !  Devils !  Hellhounds  1" 
was  now  heard  muffled  and  meditatively,  as  if  the 
speaker  was  soliloquizing  gently  whilst  retreating. 

Dolly  was  about  to  steal  away,  having  decided  that 
though  amusing  this  luncheon  party  promised  to  be 
rather  painful,  when  a  man's  tread  was  heard  quickly 
approaching  and  the  next  second  the  door  opened,  and 
she  found  herself  being  gravely  welcomed  by  a  good- 
looking,  perfectly  dressed  young  gentleman  about  her 
own  age.  His  bored,  calm,  unruffled  bearing — the  man- 
ner judged  correct  in  his  set — filled  her  in  the  circum- 
stances with  amazed  admiration. 

"Er— how  d'you  do?"  he  said.  "Miss  Fitzgerald, 
isn't  it?  Do  come  in  ...  let  me  take  your  things.  .  .  . 
Our  man  is  drunk  already,  but  that  don't  matter,  as  I 
am  an  expert  butler  myself.  Excuse  me "  He  pre- 
ceded her  up  the  passage  and  opened  the  drawing-room 
door.  The  next  moment  she  was  heartily  kissed  by  Miss 
Delarue,  hailed  as  "old  girl"  and  cordially  asked  why 
the  devil  she'd  stayed  away  so  long. 

The  two  women  began  to  talk,  whilst  the  man  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fireplace  and  surveyed  his  immacu- 
late boots.  He  had  a  sleek  head,  his  hair  was  very  care- 
fully parted  down  the  middle;  a  high  forehead  gave 
dignity  to  his  face;  his  calm,  shallow  blue  eyes  were 
inscrutable ;  he  was  clean-shaven,  with  a  good  mouth  and 
chin.  Dolly  put  him  down  as  a  mystery — the  last  man 
one  would  expect  to  bear  calmly  with  such  treatment  as 
Delia's  and  such  an  environment. 

The  room  was  furnished  with  things  of  good  quality, 
but  very  conventional,  evidently  the  taste  of  a  wholesale 
furnisher.  Miss  Delarue 's  own  taste  was  only  visible  in 
the  masses  of  signed  theatrical  photographs  that  crowded 
the  walls  and  mantelpieces  untidily,  and  the  piles  of  il- 
lustrated weeklies  and  sporting  papers  which  were  lying 
about  everywhere.  The  room  was  in  great  disorder; 
music,  books,  newspapers,  packs  of  cards,  boxes  of  sweets 


DOWNWARD  113 

and  cigarettes  lay  in  confusion  on  floor  and  furniture. 
Cigarette  ash  was  freely  sprinkled  about  and  the  dust 
lay  thick  on  everything. 

Delia  herself  had  changed  less  in  the  four  years  than 
her  guest  had  expected,  although  she  was  pitifully  al- 
tered from  the  girl  who  had  been  Dolly's  friend  as  a 
child.  Dolly  remembered  herself  at  ten  years  old  look- 
ing admiringly  up  at  her  grown-up  friend  of  eighteen — 
a  merry,  handsome,  gipsy-faced  girl,  with  large,  bold, 
black  eyes,  red  lips,  masses  of  rather  coarse,  black  hair 
and  a  splendid  bust  which  promised  to  become  too  pro- 
nounced in  the  near  future. 

The  change  was  most  apparent  in  the  eyes,  which  now 
were  glazed  and  slightly  watery,  the  flesh  around  them 
was  unnaturally  white  and  puffy;  poor  Delia's  failing 
was  indicated  in  these  unmistakable  signs.  Her  figure 
had  become  blowsy  and  was  too  tightly  laced.  She  was 
dressed  in  an  over-elaborate  afternoon  costume,  slightly 
soiled  and  carelessly  put  on.  Many  diamonds  adorned 
her,  and  her  fingers  were  covered  with  costly  rings. 

"Well,  young  'un,"  she  said,  "easy  to  see  the  world's 
treating  you  well.  How  damn  cool  and  pretty  you  look. 
I  should  look  a  death's-head  in  that  plain  rig,  but  it  suits 
you.  Let's  see.  I  was  livin'  in  Green  Street  in  slap-up 
style  when  we  chin-chined  last,  wasn't  I?  This  blasted 
little  hole's  a  bit  of  a  change,  but  it's  all  that  poor  tripe- 
hound  can  afford  now. ' ' 

This  was  even  worse  than  Dolly  expected.  She  felt 
thankful  the  poor  tripehound  was  standing  behind  her. 
To  meet  his  eye  would  have  been  dreadful,  though  she 
longed  to  see  how  he  was  taking  it. 

It  was,  however,  but  a  mild  specimen  of  Miss  Delarue  's 
method  of  address.  As  she  grew  more  at  ease  with  her 
guest,  the  full,  fruity  flavour  of  her  accustomed  style 
was  given  greater  and  ever  greater  rein.  Let  it  be  said 
at  once  that  the  speech  of  Delia  Delarue  and  her  kind 
is  quite  unprintable  in  its  fullness,  as  all  who  have  heard 
it  will  agree.  Only  a  pale,  anaemic  rendering  of  her 
unique  conversational  habit  is  here  attempted.  "Damn" 


114  DOWNWARD 

and  "blast"  were  her  mildest  expletives.  She  used  them 
as  adjectives,  she  used  them  as  adverbs ;  they  were  rarely 
out  of  her  mouth.  A  breach  of  the  third  commandment 
occurred  in  almost  her  every  utterance.  Her  customary 
terms  for  other  people  were  swine,  tripehound  and  she- 
devil,  and  it  was  by  these  three  she  almost  invariably 
described  her  man-servant  protector  and  cook  respec- 
tively. 

Presently  they  adjourned  for  lunch.  The  dining-room 
was  in  slightly  better  order ;  on  the  sideboard  stood  some 
very  fine  old  plate,  tarnished  and  slightly  dirty ;  the  sil- 
ver on  the  table  was  Little  better;  the  tablecloth,  lace- 
edged  and  of  the  finest  quality,  had  more  than  one  hole 
in  it;  the  china  was  beautiful  and  rare.  In  strange 
incongruity  to  the  rest  of  the  disorder  was  a  large  basket 
of  exquisite  pale  roses,  fresh  from  the  florist's,  which 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  round  table.  Dolly  was  admir- 
ing it  and  thinking  it  must  have  cost  at  least  a  guinea 
when  the  voice  of  her  hostess  interposed  genially :  ' '  Now, 
sit  down  and  stuff.  Rotty,  how  much  longer  are  we  to 
wait  for  some  swill?" 

By  this  term  champagne  was  apparently  intended ;  as 
they  had  barely  taken  their  seats,  the  request  sounded  a 
little  intolerant,  but  the  young  man  rose  obediently  and 
opened  a  bottle  from  the  sideboard. 

In  the  absence  of  the  intoxicated  Albert,  the  meal, 
which  was  well  chosen  and  excellently  cooked,  was  served 
by  the  Frenchwoman,  Jeanette — an  immense,  very  dark 
female  of  middle  age,  with  fierce  yellow  eyes  and  a 
hooked  nose.  Dolly  thought  her  like  a  black  cockatoo, 
and  the  resemblance  was  intensified  by  the  twist  of  black 
hair  which  she  wore  as  high  as  possible,  like  a  cockatoo's 
crest,  on  the  top  of  her  head,  the  only  neat  part  of  her 
person.  She  was  clothed  startlingly  in  a  black  silk 
trained  skirt,  divorced  at  the  waist  from  its  complement 
of  disheartened-looking  blouse  of  light  blue  chiffon. 
From  the  tight  embrace  of  this  upper  garment  her  ex- 
tremely ample  chest  threatened  to  break  away  at  every 
moment.  It  quite  fascinated  Dolly,  who  could  hardly 


DOWNWARD  115 

take  her  eyes  off  this  strange  apparition.  In  the  course 
of  the  lunch  she  discovered  that  the  Frenchwoman,  al- 
though freely  be-devilled  during  her  absence,  was  the 
only  person  whom  Delia  addressed  with  comparative 
civility. 

"I  see  you  are  interested  in  the  chaste  beauty  of  our 
dear  Jeanette,"  observed  the  host,  with  the  suavity 
which  apparently  never  left  him.  "She  is  a  sterling 
soul ;  the  missus  and  I  are  both  attached  to  her.  There 's 
nothing  useful  she  doesn't  know  and  nothing  she  can't 
cook. ' ' 

"She's  a  damn-good  sort,  Jeanette,"  remarked  Delia. 
"I've  had  her  for  years.  She  can  do  everything,  from 
nursing  one  through  a  bout  of  D.T.  to  fooling  a  writ- 
server.  ' ' 

"  It 's  very  wonderful  of  her  to  wait  as  well  as  cook  so 
beautifully,"  said  Dolly,  feeling  something  of  the  kind 
was  required. 

"Yes,  our  friend  Albert's  being  indisposed  so  early  in 
the  day  is  trying  for  the  dear  lady. ' ' 

Here  Miss  Delarue  uttered  a  tirade  against  her  erring 
man-servant  which  made  Dolly  hold  her  breath.  She 
stole  a  glance  at  "Rotty" — the  only  name  by  which  she 
as  yet  knew  her  host,  but  he  was  eating  his  bird  uncon- 
cernedly, apparently  perfectly  unmoved  by  the  flow  of 
horrible  language.  He  caught  her  glance  and  easily 
divined  her  thought. 

"Quite  cuss-proof  by  now,  you  see,"  he  murmured, 
with  a  smile,  under  cover  of  Delia's  storm  of  abuse. 
Seeing,  however,  that  her  violence  was  really  unpleasant 
to  their  guest,  he  presently  made  a  deft  and  successful 
effort  to  check  it. 

"Our  well-beloved  Albert  has  the  most  excellent  in- 
tentions," he  interposed,  when  Delia  paused  for  an  in- 
stant, "and  he's  really  an  admirable  servant,  so  we  put 
up  with  his  occasional  lapses  from  grace.  It's  all  the 
fault  of  his  ducal  lineage.  He- was  once  butler  to  the 
Duke  of  Borrowdayle,  and  after  that  for  some  years 
with  my  father.  Many  a  good  turn  has  old  Albert  done 


116  DOWNWARD 

me  in  my  Eton  days.  Of  course  now  nobody  but  our 
rather  unconventional  selves  would  employ  him." 

Dolly  wondered  who  his  father  was,  and  as  the  meal 
proceeded  her  amazement  at  the  singular  menage  grew. 
She  elicited  the  fact  that  "Rotty"  had  also  been  to 
Oxford  and  from  his  allusion  to  having  gone  down 
ten  years  ago,  she  concluded  he  must  be  well  over 
thirty,  in  spite  of  his  boyish-looking  appearance.  She 
had  supposed  him  about  her  own  age  or  younger,  led 
away  by  the  foolish  ideas  current  among  young  men  of 
his  set  that  a  connexion  with  a  notorious  woman  was  the 
"correct"  thing.  How  a  man  of  his  age  could  attach 
himself  for  years  to  a  Delia  Delarue  was  incomprehen- 
sible to  Dolly.  She  knew  their  relationship  must  have 
lasted  some  time,  as  he  had  referred  to  having  had  the 
flat  papered  twice  in  three  years,  because  Delia  liked 
constant  change.  It  was  a  matter  for  wonder,  too,  how 
a  man  living  this  life  should  not  only  show  no  trace  of  it 
in  his  face,  but  actually  look  years  and  years  younger 
than  he  really  was.  Dolly  studied  his  smooth  counte- 
nance anew;  there  were  no  wrinkles,  no  furrows  of 
thought,  anxiety  or  emotion — all  was  calm,  impassive, 
inscrutable,  both  skin  and  eyes  clear  as  a  young  child's. 
His  manner  to  Delia  was  courteous,  kind  and  affection- 
ately solicitous.  She  in  turn  called  him  impartially 
Tom-fool,  Idiot,  Jack-ass,  Dearie,  Ducky  and  Tripe- 
hound. 

Lunch  concluded,  Turkish  coffee  was  served  in  antique 
brass  cups,  which  badly  wanted  polishing.  Delia,  who 
must  have  drunk  quite  a  bottle  of  champagne  already, 
then  asked  for  a  brandy  and  soda,  which  "Rotty"  mixed 
for  her  at  the  sideboard  without  demur.  On  receiving 
it,  she  glanced  at  the  tumbler,  desired  to  know  if  the 
occasion  was  a  blasted  school  treat,  and  followed  this  by 
an  earnest  inquiry  as  to  what  the  devil  he  took  her  for  ? 
She  then  flung  half  the  contents  of  the  glass  over  the 
ferns  in  the  fireplace,  filled  it  up  with  brandy  neat,  and 
with  this  in  her  hand  led  the  way  to  her  bedroom. 

A  truly  extraordinary  apartment  was  Delia's  bed- 


DOWNWARD  117 

room.  The  furniture  of  white  enamelled  wood  was 
handsome;  the  decorations  and  hangings  dainty,  fresh 
and  in  good  taste.  They  were  evidently  new,  but  the 
carpet,  a  fine  Aubusson,  was  a  survival  of  a  former 
scheme  of  decoration  and  had  been  shockingly  treated. 
A  great  patch  of  red  stain  near  the  toilet-table,  repeated 
on  the  white  wood  of  the  latter,  showed  where  a  bottle 
of  rouge  had  once  been  spilt,  and  there  were  white 
patches  of  powder  trodden  into  the  carpet  all  round  the 
toilet-table  and  wash-stand.  Dark  brown  stains  in  an- 
other place  seemed  to  betoken  the  spilling  of  tea  or 
coffee,  and  crumbs  were  thickly  scattered  on  the  floor  by 
the  bed. 

The  wash-stand  was  intended  for  a  double  set  of  toilet- 
ware, but  only  one  reposed  on  it — all  the  rest  of  its 
surface  was  closely  crowded  with  bottles  and  pots  of 
every  shape  and  size,  containing  every  variety  of  cos- 
metic and  unguent.  The  large  dressing-table  was  cov- 
ered with  a  rose  brocade  cover  to  match  the  bed-quilt. 
On  this  was  heaped  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  toilet 
and  other  articles,  in  some  places  reaching  a  depth  of 
some  inches.  The  first  layer  was  apparently  composed 
of  a  massive  silver  set  of  brushes,  mirrors  and  accessories 
and  a  quantity  of  silver  boxes  all  very  tarnished.  There 
were  also  some  photographs  in  silver  frames  and  a  few 
specimens  of  antique  patch-boxes,  Battersea  enamels, 
etc.  On  the  top  of  this  were  sprinkled  packets  of  pins, 
ribbons,  hair-nets,  handkerchiefs,  manicure  implements, 
two  or  three  pin-curls  and  a  tail  of  hair,  paint  rags, 
boxes  of  powder,  pots  of  rouge,  pieces  of  rouge-stained 
cotton-wool,  bottles  of  scent  and  of  face-cream,  cigarettes 
loose  and  in  boxes  and  many  other  oddments.  A  spirit 
decanter,  half-full,  stood  on  one  of  the  jewel  drawers,  a 
black  silk  stocking  hung  from  one  end  of  the  table,  sev- 
eral odd  gloves  and  an  expensive  lace  veil  also  found  a 
place  in  the  medley  and  at  the  back,  by  the  mirror,  there 
was  a  heap  of  bills,  loose  letters  and  theatre  pro- 
grammes. 

The  note  struck  by  this  unique  dressing-table  was 


118  DOWNWARD 

repeated  throughout  the  room.  Clothes  were  strewn 
everywhere,  and  there  were  more  pairs  of  boots  and 
shoes  ranged  round  the  walls  than  Dolly  ever  remem- 
bered seeing  in  one  room  in  her  life  before. 

As  in  the  dining-room,  a  startling  contrast  was  pro- 
vided by  another  large  basket  of  roses  which  stood  on  a 
table  by  the  bed,  sharing  the  space  with  a  pile  of  news- 
papers and  paper-backed  novels,  an  empty  champagne 
bottle,  two  pieces  of  buttered  toast  and  a  pink  silk 
chemise  torn  almost  in  halves,  evidently  in  temper,  since 
it  looked  quite  new.  Everywhere  was  extravagance,  dirt 
and  neglect. 

In  a  large  arm-chair  a  yellow  cat  had  made  itself 
comfortable  among  the  soft  fleeces  of  a  huge,  white 
ostrich  feather  boa.  Dolly's  practised  feminine  eye 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  the  boa  was  a  costly  one,  and 
she  awaited  an  explosion  with  trepidation.  To  her  sur- 
prise Delia  lifted  the  animal  off  with  a  caress  and  said 
gently:  "Darling,  mother's  asked  you  not  to  do  that 
before."  It  was  almost  the  only  sentence  she  had 
spoken  without  either  curse,  blasphemy,  swear-word  or 
vulgarism.  She  pushed  Dolly  into  a  chair  and  sat  down 
opposite  in  another. 

"Now,  old  girl,  we  can  talk,"  she  said,  after  a  long 
draught  at  her  tumbler  of  brandy  and  soda.  ' '  Cough  it 
off  your  chest — let  it  rip !  What  did  you  want  to  see  me 
about?" 

Dolly  hesitated.  Her  dream  of  going  on  the  stage 
seemed  to  have  receded  an  infinite  distance.  Certainly 
she  no  longer  wished  to  start  her  new  career  under 
Delia's  auspices — the  idea  was  ludicrous.  All  women  on 
the  musical  comedy  stage  were  not  like  Delia,  yet  stage- 
life  had  made  Delia  what  she  was  and  the  thought  was 
disquieting. 

How  different  she  had  been  once !  Dolly  recalled  that 
long  ago  friendship  when  she  and  Delia  had  had  so  much 
in  common  even  as  big  girl  and  little  girl  that  the  differ- 
ence in  their  ages  could  not  keep  them  apart.  She  remem- 
bered Delia  at  eighteen,  delighted  at  being  promoted  to 


DOWNWARD  119 

her  first  song-and-dance,  practising  her  steps  before  the 
glass  in  the  little  white  house  at  Fulham,  with  Valerie 
offering  encouragement  and  suggestions.  In  those  days 
Delia  had  been  a  pretty  and  modest  girl,  a  little  slangy, 
a  little  given  to  head-tossings  and  over-loud  laughter 
perhaps,  but  a  nice  girl  enough. 

Dolly  glanced  at  the  ruined  carpet,  the  tarnished 
silver,  at  the  torn  chemise,  at  the  tumbler  now  empty, 
and  lastly  she  glanced  sideways  at  Delia's 'puffy  eyes, 
blotched  cheeks  and  elaborate,  soiled  dress. 

"I — for  no  special  reason,"  she  answered,  confusedly. 
"I  heard  you  were  out  of  a  shop,  and  thought  it  would 
be  nice  to  see  you." 

' '  Oh,  was  that  it  ?  Damn  nice  of  you,  ducky.  Most  of 
my  pals  keep  off  the  grass  now,  though  they  were  clus- 
terin'  round  me  like  flies  when  I  was  thick  with  the 
managers.  A  blasted,  self-seekin'  crew  of " 

She  talked  on,  her  speech  a  little  indistinct  with  a 
tendency  to  blur  the  syllables.  Her  breakfast  had  been 
a  pint  of  champagne  and  she  had  had  several  brandies 
and  sodas  before  lunch.  Gradually  her  talk  became 
more  spasmodic  and  then  ceased  .  .  .  she  had  fallen  into 
a  doze.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  sight.  Dolly  rose  and 
walked  to  the  window,  stumbling  over  a  row  of  empty 
bottles  behind  the  dressing-table. 

As  she  looked  down  into  the  quiet  street  far  below,  a 
sadness  stole  over  her.  The  realization  of  her  dreams 
seemed  so  far  away.  Again  she  asked  herself :  should  I 
get  like  Delia  ?  Surely,  surely  it  was  not  possible.  She, 
Dolly,  had  had  a  better  grounding,  a  different  mother; 
she  would  start  older  and  wiser  than  had  Delia.  Then, 
too,  Delia  had  complicated  things  by  an  unhappy  mar- 
riage. .  .  .  Dolly  dimly  recalled  having  heard  of  a 
divorce.  .  She  wouldn't  make  any  such  mistake,  she 
would  keep  away  from  men.  .  .  . 

Here  her  eyes  grew  wide — she  knew  this  would  be 
difficult,  perhaps  impossible.  She  knew  her  own  weak- 
ness— how  strong  was  her  desire  for  admiration — how 
love  appealed  to  her — how  nearly  her  own  ardent  blood 


120  DOWNWARD 

had  already  betrayed  her  in  more  than  one  of  her  mad 
flirtations.  .  .  .  Then,  too,  if  all  she  had  been  told  of 
agents  and  managers  was  true  .  .  . 

In  any  case,  she  told  herself,  resolutely  banishing  this 
train  of  thought,  she  could  never  become  a  drunkard. 
Mother  had  brought  her  up  almost  a  teetotaler  .  .  .  but 
then  Delia  had  practically  been  the  same  once,  Dolly 
plainly  remembered  that.  The  craving  came  gradually, 
she  had  been  told.  One  must  drink  so  as  not  to  be  singu- 
lar, one  mustn't  refuse  to  drink  or  it  would  arouse  ill- 
will.  The  taste  acquired,  one  drank  to  keep  one's  spirits 
up,  to  remain  gay  and  talkative  and  vivacious — to  keep 
away  that  deadly  tiredness,  the  hours  were  so  long  and 
the  standing  about  at  the  theatre  so  tiring.  Finally  one 
drank  because  one  had  got  to  need  it — one  could  not 
keep  going  without  it. 

A  loud  groan,  followed  by  much  yawning,  interspersed 
with  the  usual  exclamatory  breaches  of  the  third  com- 
mandment, announced  that  her  hostess  was  awake. 

"Where  are  you,  old  girl?  'Scuse  my  forty  winks. 
Well,  suppose  we  move  on  to  the  Exhibish.  I'll  tell  that 
tripehound  to  whistle  up  a  chariot.  Rotty !  Rotty !  where 
has  that  blasted  boy  got  to?" 

Presently  there  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door.  "Well?" 
said  the  blasted  boy's  voice  outside. 

"Come  in,  you  fool.  What,  shy  of  Dolly?  Oh,  U  Id! 
Well,  stay  outside.  I  want  a  hansom,  or  a  taxi;  we're 
going  to  the  Exhibish  now  as  per  programme.  ...  If 
you  want  to  fake,  old  girl,  go  ahead,  or  if  this  place  is 
too  mucked-up  for  you,  go  into  Rotty 's  dressing-room; 
he's  rather  good  at  tidyin'  up  after  himself.  When  that 
hell-hound  Albert's  boozin'  the  place  don't  get  touched, 
you  see." 

"But  does  the  butler  do  your  room?" 

"Rather,  he  does  everythin'  for  me,  all  the  rooms,  and 
valets  the  tripehound  as  well.  He  isn't  supposed  to 
buttle  now ;  gone  down  a  lot  below  that — he 's  our  man  of 
all  work." 

"But  what  does  Jeanette  do?" 


DOWNWARD  121 

"Only  cooks.  The  she-devil  won't  do  a  stroke  beyond 
cookin',  but  she  keeps  the  kitchen  as  neat  as  can  be,  and 
doesn't  care  a  damn  what  sort  of  a  mess  the  rest  gets  in. 
She  won't  even  mend  my  clo',  and  as  Albert  and  Rotty 
can't,  why  my  clo'  never  get  mended,  and  I  have  to 
pitch  'em  away." 

Dolly  moved  into  the  adjoining  dressing-room  which 
proved  to  be  moderately  tidy.  It  was  somewhat  of  a 
shock  to  her  to  learn  that  the  young  man  lived  there. 
She  had  the  true  feminine  instinct  that  a  man's  home 
should  be  made  as  comfortable  as  possible.  Dolly  had 
imagined  him  finding  a  piquant  contrast  in  this  sordid 
flat  to  his  own  immaculate  rooms,  and  returning  to  them 
doubly  appreciative  of  their  restful  perfection.  He 
looked  that  kind  of  man.  And  to  think  he  lived  here, 
had  lived  here  for  years,  apparently  well  contented — it 
was  inexplicable!  But  perhaps  he  had  other  rooms  as 
well,  she  thought,  or  at  any  rate  a  club  .  .  .  certainly  he 
must  have  a  club.  Dolly  found  herself  hoping  that  he 
had. 

"What  fake  do  you  use?"  Delia  asked  her  abruptly 
as  she  returned  to  the  bedroom. 

"Make-up?    None,  I  never  have." 

"What,  all  that  colour  natural?  So  it  is,  to  be  sure! 
Well,  I'm  damned!  But  don't  take  that  preachy  tone 
about  it,  my  little  trout;  you'd  do  it  quick  enough  if  you 
needed  it.  No  doubt  you'd  be  plastered  as  thick  as  any 
one." 

"I  daresay,"  said  Dolly,  amiably,  "but  I  could  only 
do  it  off  duty.  It  wouldn't  do  for  a  nurse  to  use  even 
powder  when  on  duty." 

"Lor' !  how  quaint!  I  can't  imagine  you  a  nurse  .  .  . 
what  a  strange  life  to  lead,  slavin'  like  that!  Why  the 
dev  d'you  do  it?"  For  the  first  time  she  showed  a 
momentary  interest  in  her  guest's  affairs. 

She  had  now  assumed  an  immense  black  hat  adorned 
with  a  whirl  of  black  and  white  osprey.  She  stuffed  a 
powder-puff  and  a  stick  of  lip  salve  into  a  gilt  bag, 
wound  the  feather  boa  round  her  neck,  tenderly  kissed 


122  DOWNWARD 

the  yellow  cat  on  the  brow,  and  preceded  Dolly  out  of 
the  flat.  Rotty  f ollowed. 

"Damn-it-all,  I  meant  to  have  had  another  drink  be- 
fore startin'!"  Delia  ejaculated  as  the  man  pulled  the 
door  behind  them. 

' '  Oh — better  get  on  now — what  ? "  he  said,  at  the  same 
time  taking  out  his  latch-key  so  that  no  show  of  opposi- 
tion should  vex  her  into  insisting.  The  ruse  succeeded. 
Delia  began  to  descend  the  stairs  somewhat  unsteadily, 
and  Dolly,  turning  at  the  bend  of  the  staircase  in  front, 
saw  a  distinct  look  of  relief  on  Rotty 's  countenance. 

"Perhaps  that's  the  explanation,"  she  thought.  "He 
sticks  to  her  to  try  and  keep  her  from  drinking,  or  rather 
to  keep  her  from  dying  of  it.  I  believe  the  man's  a 
hero!" 

She  was  distinctly  disappointed  on  finding  that  the 
hero  did  not  intend  to  accompany  the  ladies  to  the 
Exhibition,  but  was  off  to  his  club.  It  was,  nevertheless, 
a  satisfaction  to  find  that  he  really  had  a  club.  No  doubt 
it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  get  Delia  taken  off  his  hands 
for  one  afternoon.  For  her  part,  Dolly  viewed  with  dis- 
may the  prospect  of  being  alone  with  Delia  all  the  after- 
noon out  of  doors.  How  many  bars  were  there  likely  to 
be  in  the  Exhibition? 

On  the  pavement  the  young  man  took  leave  of  the 
ladies,  Dolly  remarking  that  she  did  not  yet  know  his 
name. 

"Er Rottingdean, "  he  replied,  with  his  cool  smile, 

and  it  dawned  upon  Dolly  that  the  hero,  the  tripehound, 
this  quiet,  decorous  young  man  must  be  the  notorious 
Lord  Rottingdean,  whose  name  she  had  heard  vaguely 
coupled  with  Delia's  some  time  back. 

"Don't  be  later  than  six,  ducky,"  said  Delia,  patting 
his  tie.  "Dolly  has  to  go  by 'then,  and  you  know  how 
moped  I  get  alone." 

Rottingdean  knew  —  and  the  consequence  of  that 
moping.  Ke  promised  to  be  back  at  six. 

^He's  a  dear,  good  boy,"  said  Delia  with  a  sigh  as  the 
hansom  drove  of!.  "I've  known  him  for  a  long  time,  on 


DOWNWARD  123 

and  off.  He  really  cares  for  me,  you  know — no  cod.  He 
can 't  bear  a  well-ordered  life,  you  know ;  everything  stiff 
and  regular.  He  hates  domesticity;  our  rackety  life 
just  suits  him.  He  really  cares,  you  see." 

Dolly  supposed  he  must. 

Arriving  at  their  destination,  Delia  commanded  the 
hansom  to  wait.  There  were  cabs  accessible  at  the  en- 
trance all  day  long,  but  that  did  not  weigh  with  her. 
She  did  not  even  condescend  to  make  an  arrangement 
by  the  hour,  although  they  expected  to  be  two  hours  or 
more  in  the  Exhibition.  It  was  the  habit  of  her  class  to 
be  lordly  in  these  matters.  ''Money  was  meant  to  be 
spent." 


XI 

COMING  home  late  in  the  afternoon  to  dress  for  her 
appointment  with  Dacre,  some  impulse  prompted  Dolly 
to  get  off  the  omnibus  and  make  her  way  into  the  Park, 
there  to  retrace  her  steps  of  the  morning.  She  did  not 
try  and  explain  or  resist  this  inward  prompting,  but 
yielded  to  it  as  was  her  wont  with  impulses. 

Her  thoughts  were  not  with  Delia  or  Lord  Rotting- 
dean,  the  events  of  the  afternoon  or  this  question  of 
going  on  the  stage — but  had  shaped  themselves  involun- 
tarily to  Theo.  When  she  reached  the  bench  where  he 
and  Helen  had  been  that  morning  it  was  hardly  a  sur- 
prise to  find  Theo  sitting  there,  his  face  turned  expect- 
antly towards  the  direction  from  whence  she  was  coming. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  he  said  in  a  low,  rapturous 
voice,  and  taking  her  hand,  he  gently  drew  her  on  to  the 
seat  beside  him.  "How  wonderful  it  is  that  I  knew,  and 
that  you  have  come!" 

"Like  a  dream,"  Dolly  heard  her  own  voice  saying. 
Their  eyes  were  shining,  a  smile  was  on  their  lips — that 
unmistakable,  rapt  smile  one  can  see  on  the  faces  of 
couples  of  every  class — in  the  ballroom,  in  the  street,  by 
country  hedgerows  and  town  alleys,  anywhere  and  every- 
where where  young  men  and  women  seek  and  find  each 
other. 

They  yielded  themselves  to  the  magic  of  the  moment 
and  without  conventional  quibblings  or  assumed  sur- 
prise; they  straightway  fell  into  an  intimate,  strangely 
charming  conversation.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  been 
hungering  to  talk  to  each  other,  and  now  they  opened 
their  hearts  and  talked  and  talked — of  themselves,  their 
aspirations,  ambitions,  hopes,  desires,  of  their  taste  in 
124 


DOWNWARD  125 

books,  plays,  music  and  pictures.  They  talked,  too,  of  their 
childhood,  and  school  days,  and  a  little  of  their  mothers. 
Dolly  told  Theo  about  her  afternoon,  the  strange  couple 
she  had  lunched  with,  and  the  perplexity  she  now  felt 
as  to  her  future  course  of  action.  She  told,  too,  of  her 
hatred  of  Meredith  House,  and  her  longing  for  a  differ- 
ent life.  If  Dolly  told  more  than  Theo  it  was  because 
the  one  thing  that  burned  most  for  expression  on  his  lips 
was  a  thing  he  dared  not  name  even  to  himself. 

But  neither  of  them  spoke  of  Helen. 

It  had  grown  dusk  in  their  secluded,  tree-shadowed 
seat.  The  shadows  were  even  kinder  to  Dolly  than  the 
sun  had  been.  In  place  of  her  brilliancy  that  the  sun 
lit  up  and  intensified,  the  twilight  gave  her  an  added 
mystery.  Her  eyes  would  have  lured  a  stronger  and 
wiser  man  than  Theo;  a  kind  of  soft  glow  seemed  to 
emanate  from  her  whole  face ;  her  lips,  infinitely  witch- 
ing, were  parted  in  that  rapt  smile,  tender  and  shy.  All 
the  hardness,  the  boldness,  the  independence  and  assert- 
iveness  had  vanished  from  her  manner,  and  as  she  lis- 
tened with  sympathy,  talked  in  soft  tones  and  asked 
advice  wistfully — Theo  felt  that  here  was  a  woman  who 
could  do  with  him  as  she  would.  A  phrase  he  had  lately 
read  echoed  insistently  in  his  thoughts :  "To  wring  one 's 
soul  out  on  her  lips"  ...  He  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  Dolly's  lips. 

It  seemed  quite  natural — akin  with  the  rest,  and  a 
fitting  end — that  when  Dolly  started  up  in  dismay  at  a 
neighbouring  clock  striking,  Theo — rising  too — should 
put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  softly,  reverently, 
with  breath  held  in  check  and  heart-beats  almost 
stopped,  should  kiss  her  lips  with  the  best  of  his  soul  on 
his  own. 

The  world  stood  still  for  one  wonderful  instant  while 
Dolly  yielded — then  as  the  thought  of  Helen  struck  on 
her  heart  she  flung  her  head  back  and  drew  sharply 
away  from  the  touch  of  those  passionate  hands  —  the 
hands  of  Helen's  lover. 

"Don't— don't  I" 


126  DOWNWARD 

"Forgive  me — I  couldn't  help  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only 
knew!" 

"Don't  speak,  don't  say  anything!    I  must  go." 

He  took  her  arm,  and  swiftly,  silently  they  walked 
along  together — fear  and  joy,  shame  and  delight  whirl- 
ing in  intoxicating  tumult  in  their  hearts. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  reached  Stanhope 
Gate.  Theo  hailed  a  hansom  and  while  they  waited  on 
the  curb  they  looked  at  each  other  again  —  that  soft, 
strange  look  with  which  so  much  virtue  goes  out  of  one 
that  lovers  pale  and  tremble,  and  feel  a  dazed  faintness 
and  fluttering  of  the  heart,  when  those  other  eyes  have 
passed  that  blot  out  all  the  world. 

"When  can  I  see  you  again?"  asked  Theo.  Dolly 
made  an  honest  effort  to  utter  a  repulse — but  it  stuck  in 
her  throat. 

"I — oh,  I  can't!    I  don't  know " 

"I  must  see  you  again,  I  must!  Don't  be  cruel — 
don't  torment  me!  Make  it  to-morrow — dine  with  me 
to-morrow.  Do,  ah,  do!" 

"To-morrow!  Why,  I  shan't  have  another  free  eve- 
ning for  a  week." 

"My  God!  I  can't  wait  a  week.  Oh,  let  me  see  you 
some  time  to-morrow !  You'll  have  some  free  time  in  the 
day,  I  know." 

' '  Only  quite  early  in  the  morning,  and  I  can 't  possibly 
see  you  then." 

"The  next  day,  then?  You'll  be  free  in  the  afternoon, 
surely  ?  Come  to  tea  with  me — do — at  my  chambers. ' ' 

If  he  had  named  anywhere  else  Dolly  might  have  re- 
sisted for  Helen's  sake.  She  had  been  to  tea  at  all  the 
fashionable  rendezvous  and  was  tired  of  them.  But 
Theo 's  flat  I  —  that  romantic,  interesting  place  he  had 
spoken  of — to  be  alone  with  him  in  seclusion,  in  a  beau- 
tiful room,  the  roar  of  London  all  round  them,  yet  no 
one  knowing  of  their  secret  meeting!  She  pictured  the 
place,  the  hour  they  would  spend  together — how  strange 
and  thrilling  it  would  be  ...  She  pictured  the  way  he 
would  look  at  her — what  he  would  say  and  do.  She 


DOWNWARD  127 

knew  he  would  kneel  at  her  feet  and  kiss  her  hands 
and  worship  her.  She  knew  he  would  kiss  her  lips  and 
almost  die  of  it.  She  knew,  too,  that  she  would  share  his 
ecstasy,  and,  above  all  things,  she  knew  that  it  would  be 
oh !  so  different  from  Colin  Lester,  and  Mark  Galloway, 
and  boring  Harold  Gordon,  and  stupid  little  Freddy 
Smith,  and  the  many  brutal  men  who  had  desired  her 
and  sought  to  gain  her. 

That  overwhelming  craving  for  life  and  joy  rushed  up 
in  her  again.  Why  should  she  deny  herself  this  one  hour 
of  colour  and  rapture  and  innocent  delight?  It  would 
be  innocent,  she  felt  sure.  It  should  be,  she  determined ; 
and  it  would  not  hurt  Helen  or  herself.  Helen  had  so 
much — she  so  little.  And  it  was  only  for  once — for  once, 
and  then  never  again. 

"I'll  see,"  she  breathed,  almost  inaudibly. 

' '  Heaven  bless  you  for  that ! ' ' 

He  helped  her  in,  shielding  her  dress  from  the  wheel 
as  if  it  had  been  an  angel's  raiment.  "Where  shall  I 
say  ? "  he  asked.  "Is  it  too  late  for  your  appointment ? 
It's  just  on  eight" 

' '  My  appointment  was  for  eight — I  shall  have  to  go  as 
I  am,  then.  The  Waldorf,  please." 

Theo  gave  the  direction  in  a  voice  that  caused  the  cab- 
man to  glance  sharply  down  and  grin  knowingly  to 
himself. 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye."  Their  fingers  just  touched :  the  hansom 
drove  off.  Dolly  pressed  her  hands  to  her  gleaming  eyes 
for  a  moment  and  then  looked  at  herself  in  the  strip  of 
glass  at  the  side  of  the  cab.  Her  face  bore  that  curious, 
veiled  expression  that  women  reserve  for  their  seclusion 
— that  no  man  ever  sees. 

But  Theo  shivered  as  he  stood  still  on  the  curb,  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  retreating  hansom,  asking  himself  how 
he  could  have  let  her  go. 


XII 

DOLLY  only  had  two  hours  off  that  afternoon,  and  a 
quarter  of  the  precious  time  was  passed  in  dressing.  It 
was  twenty  minutes  to  five  as  she  drove  down  the  Strand 
to  her  meeting  with  Theo.  She  had  told  the  cabman  to 
stop  at  Fleet  Street  Post  Office.  The  loafers  on  the 
pavement  uttered  jesting  exclamations  as  she  stepped 
nervously  out  of  the  hansom,  her  white  shoes  and  stock- 
ings visible  beneath  the  froth  and  frills  of  uplifted  white 
skirts.  She  paid  hurriedly  and  sped  into  Mitre  Court, 
thankful  to  escape  from  those  rough  comments,  but  only 
to  face  a  fresh  battery  of  "Oh,  my!"  and  "Well,  I 
never!"  "Lor',  my  shoes!"  and  "What  a  daisy!"  from 
a  second  lot  of  loafers  outside  the  public-house  at  the 
foot  of  the  Court. 

With  cheeks  burning  beneath  her  white  veil,  Dolly 
flew  on,  relieved  to  find  herself  in.  the  wide  space  of 
King's  Bench  Walk,  where  th«  men  passing  to  and  fro 
were  not  of  the  kind  who  gave  loud  voice  to  their  admira- 
tion »r  ciiri-ssity.  They  all  looked  hard  at  the  unaccus- 
tomed vision,  kowerer,  and  Dolly  told  herself  she  had 
been  foolish  to  make  herself  so  conspicuous  in  hfcr  very 
best  dress.  But  she  so  seldom  had  an  opportiuiity  for 
wearing  it,  and  she  had  so  wanted  to  look  h.er  best-~for 
Theo. 

"After  all,  it's  London,  and  the  summer,  and  the 
height  of  the  season,"  she  thought.  "My  dress  is  quite 
right  for  a  town  afternoon  in  July.  Why  do  they  all 
stare  so?  Do  none  of  these  lawyers  and  barristers  and 
journalists  ever  hare  a  decent-looking  wom&n  to  visit 
them?" 

The  attention  she  received  made  hsr  feel  more  and 
128 


DOWNWARD  129 

more  nervous  and  guilty,  and  when  at  last  she  found  the 
block  where  Theo  lived,  she  was  feeling  almost  hysterical, 
as  she  rushed  up  the  stairs,  longing  for  the  safety  and 
seclusion  of  her  destination. 

Up — and  up — and  up! — oh!  what  a  long  way  it 
seemed,  although  in  reality  it  was  but  two  stories.  The 
swish  of  her  silken  underskirts  seemed  to  make  a  loud 
noise  like  the  wind  in  a  storm.  She  felt  that  people 
would  be  hurrying  out  to  inquire  the  cause  of  the  din. 

Up — and  up — and  up ! — was  the  place  never  coming  ? 
Ah,  at  last  the  door  she  sought — a  heavy  oaken  door — 
"Mr.  Theodore  Walter"  painted  above.  It  flew  open  at 
her  tap,  and  there  stood  Theo,  his  face  radiant — a  glad 
welcome  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  you've  come!  You've  really  come!"  he  said, 
jealously  closing  the  door  that  shut  her  in  with  him. 

She  stumbled  across  the  threshold,  one  hand  on  her 
heart,  too  breathless  to  speak — her  eyes  wide  and  fearful, 
beseeching  him. 

"You're  out  of  breath  .  .  .  why,  you're  frightened!" 
Gently  soothing  her,  he  led  her  along  a  dark  passage  into 
a  room  full  of  soft  light.  She  found  herself  sitting  on  a 
great  divan  with  Theo  by  her  side,  gazing  at  her.  He 
was  kissing  the  hand  he  held — very  gently,  very  ten- 
derly, as  if  it  were  something  he  dared  hardly  touch. 

"You're  not  afraid,  sweet  lady?"  he  was  saying; 
"surely  you're  not  afraid?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  answered,  "only — every  one 
stared,  and  I  got  nervous,  and  I  thought  I  should  never 
find  you,  and,  oh,  suppose  any  one  had  seen  me ! " 

"But  you're  not  doing  anything  wrong." 

' '  N-  -no,  not  really  wrong,  of  course,  but  not  very 
right  either — at  least  ...  oh,  well,  I  'm  here,  anyhow,  so 
don't  let's  talk  of  that."  And  she  flashed  her  most 
dazzling  smile  at  him — her  head  a  little  back,  her  eyes 
half  mocking. 

Theo  agreed  with  a  feeling  of  relief :  how  delightfully 
she  fitted  in,  he  thought;  how  cleverly  she  understood! 

The  room  Dolly  found  herself  in  was  very  large  and 


130  DOWNWARD 

exceptionally  lofty;  the  great  window  took  up  the  most 
of  one  wall  and  reached  almost  to  the  roof;  it  was  the 
only  one  in  the  room  and  gave  it  a  chapel-like  appear- 
ance. The  other  end,  where  the  divan  stood,  was  quite 
in  shadow.  There  were  two  or  three  huge  palms  in  pots 
grouped  at  the  back  of  the  divan,  and  at  its  head  was 
placed  a  large  vessel  of  antique  brass  on  three  legs,  in 
which  stood  several  pots  of  lilies  interspersed  with  ferns. 
Their  heavy,  languorous  odour  was  a  little  overpowering, 
since  there  were  so  many  other  flowers  in  the  room  as 
well. 

The  parquet  floor  was  relieved  by  a  few  Persian  rugs, 
and  before  the  hearth  a  magnificent  tiger  skin  was 
stretched.  The  furniture  was  all  antique,  each  piece 
rare  and  excellent  of  its  kind.  A  collection  of  old  brass 
was  spread  on  a  splendid  oak  dresser  and  a  couple  of 
cabinets  held  china  that  would  have  excited  a  con- 
noisseur's envy. 

Theo  was  an  enthusiastic  collector,  and  as  a  rule  ready 
to  talk  about  his  things  as  long  as  any  one  would  listen. 
To-day,  however,  they  were  far  from  his  mind.  He  did 
not  even  call  her  attention  to  the  cherished  window,  or 
to  the  small  collection  of  pictures  of  which  he  was  justly 
proud.  This  woman  filled  his  whole  horizon,  all  his 
thoughts.  Her  presence  flooded  his  spirit  with  a  tremu- 
lous joy.  Her  nervousness,  now  past,  had  communicated 
itself  to  him.  She  looked  so  dainty,  so  maddening  in  her 
exquisite  clothes — he  had  never  seen  her  like  this  before. 
The  witchery  of  her  mocking  eyes  went  to  his  head.  For 
the  first  time  he  felt  afraid  of  himself — of  her. 

As  before  in  the  Park,  the  ordinary  conventionalities 
of  talk  refused  to  be  uttered.  With  hands  linked  to- 
gether, dumbly  they  sat  beneath  the  most  potent  spell 
that  the  world  knows.  Nature's  white  magic  held  their 
eyes  enlocked;  Nature's  white  fire  made  molten  their 
hearts  .  .  . 

As  they  gazed  in  silence,  the  mocking  smile  died  from 
Dolly 's  eyes.  She  felt  as  if  unseen  fingers  were  straining 
at  the  muscles  of  her  face,  as  if  her  mouth  were  becoming 


DOWNWARD  131 

drawn.  Her  lips  began  to  tremble,  her  eyes  to  widen  as 
in  fear,  a  storm  of  tears  seemed  about  to  rise  and  engulf 
her.  In  her  mind  the  thought  flashed:  "This  is  very, 
very  serious — this  is  aw  full" 

Both  the  young  faces  were  very  solemn.  Theo's,  too, 
was  white  and  drawn,  as  Dolly  felt  her  own  to  be.  Just 
as  the  strain  was  becoming  intolerable,  and  the  awful 
magnetism  of  that  endless  gaze  seemed  to  be  tearing  out 
their  hearts,  their  eyes  dropped  suddenly — simultane- 
ously, as  if  at  the  bidding  of  some  unseen  power.  The 
spell  had  broken — with  a  feeling  of  unutterable  relief 
they  swayed  into  each  other's  arms,  drowning  their  pain 
in  the  ecstasy  of  kisses  sweet  and  terrible. 

At  last  Dolly  drew  back  and  opened  her  eyes.  Theo 
bowed  his  head  upon  their  clasped  hands.  "What  have 
you  done  to  me?  What  have  you  done  to  me! "  he  mur- 
mured, brokenly. 

It  was  all  just  as  she  had  pictured,  only  far  more 
thrilling — and  painful,  too ;  she  had  not  reckoned  on  the 
element  of  pain. 

The  time  raced  along ;  the  brief  hour  was  almost  run, 
and  still  they  sat  side  by  side,  holding  each  other,  pour- 
ing out  their  hearts.  Returning  speech  had  given  them 
a  little  ease  and  gaiety,  and  they  felt  they  could  never 
tell  each  other  all  there  was  to  be  told,  never  slake  the 
desire  of  the  eyes  or  satisfy  the  longing  for  each  other's 
lips. 

"I  could  hold  you  like  this  forever,"  whispered  Theo. 
"Dolly !  Dolly !  I  can  never  let  you  go !  I  could  kiss  you 
for  ever  and  ever.  I  could  look  at  your  face  till 
eternity!" 

"Isn't  it  wonderful!"  Dolly  murmured. 

"Wonderful  and  glorious — like  you  are,  sweet — 
sweetest  of  women.  Are  you  a  woman?" 

' '  Silly  boy !    Whatever  else  should  I  be  ? " 

"A  fairy,  a  sprite,  a  nymph,  a  dryad — a  creature  of 
fire  and  dew  and  wondrous  magic  blood,  come  down  from 
some  distant  star-land,  some  far  realm  of  joy,  to  torment 
and  delight  the  sons  of  men.  You  do  torment,  you  know, 


182  DOWNWARD 

Dolly;  you  distil  the  most  subtle,  intoxicating  poison — I 
shall  die  of  you!" 

Dolly  ran  her  fingers  through  his  dark  hair;  he  was 
so  white,  and  his  half -shut,  green  eyes  were  glittering. 
Wild  words  rose  to  her  lips.  She  wanted  to  whisper 
"Die  of  me,  Beloved,  and  let  me  die  of  you!  Kill  me 
with  love,  drown  me  in  your  sweetness!  Let  me  sleep 
and  never,  never  wake!" 

But  she  only  put  her  cheek  against  his,  and  stifled 
back  the  words.  His  extravagances  of  speech  fascinated 
her.  They  were  so  different  from  anything  she  had  ever 
known. 

' '  I  have  it ! "  he  said,  suddenly ;  ' '  I  know  what  you  are 
now:  'a  rose,  a  lily,  a  dove,  a  serpent,  a  little  honey  and 
a  handful  of  clay.'  No,  not  that  either,  though  it's  a 
lovely  sentence,  but  it  doesn't  describe  you — it  doesn't 
express  the  sting  and  the  spell  of  you." 

"Where  does  that  come  from?"  asked  Dolly. 

"I  can't  think  .  .  .  where  now?  .  .  .  where?  Isn't 
it  maddening  when  one  can't  place  a  thing  like  that  ?  Do 
you  know  that  when  we  met  in  the  Park  a  thousand 
years  ago  ..." 

"The  day  before  yesterday!" 

"A  thousand  years  ago,  my  Lady  of  the  Enchanted 
Hair !  Well,  on  that  day  you  reminded  me  of  something 
I  had  read,  and  I  couldn't  think  where  it  came  from,  and 
it  haunted  me  all  the  thousand  years  until  this  morning 
I  ran  it  to  earth  in  the  unlikeliest  place  in  the  world. ' ' 

"What  was  it?" 

"  'To  wring  one's  soul  out  on  the  lips  of  the  one 
woman.'  Isn't  that  beautiful?  It  was  actually  in  Ste- 
venson's Letters,  of  all  unlikely  places,  one  he  wrote 
when  he  was  twenty-five.  'To  wring  one's  soul  out!'  I 
could  lose  a  hundred  souls  in  your  kisses,  Beautiful,  and 
still  be  hungry  and  athirst  for  you." 

With  a  tremor  she  turned  her  face  away  and  tightened 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  Theo  bent  his  head  and  kissed 
the  laces  that  fluttered  on  her  breast.  He  could  feel  the 


DOWNWARD  133 

warmth  of  her  beautiful  bosom — rising  and  falling  so 
quickly  now.  Again  he  felt  afraid  .  .  . 

It  was  a  dangerous  moment.  Theo  rose  abruptly  and 
walked  away  from  her  to  the  end  of  the  room.  There  the 
tea  table,  with  its  burden  of  silver  and  china,  attracted 
his  attention. 

"Why,  you've  not  had  tea  yet,"  he  said,  welcoming 
the  diversion.  "How  badly  I  treat  my  Lady.  But  she 
shall  have  it  in  a  second.  I  told  Victor  to  leave  the 
kettle  absolutely  boiling." 

"It  will  have  boiled  away  to  nothing  by  now,"  said 
Dolly.  In  a  minute  Theo  returned,  carrying  a  steaming 
copper  kettle.  "It  almost  had,  but  there's  just  enough 
for  tea." 

Dolly  joined  him  at  the  table.  ' '  How  nicely  your  man 
arranges  things,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it's  your  man." 

"Yes,  Victor  is  a  king  in  his  own  line.  He's  a  Pole. 
I  picked  him  up  in  Paris. ' ' 

Theo  was  disappointed  that  she  refused  to  eat.  "I 
thought  I'd  just  got  the  right  tea  for  a  lady,"  he  said, 
ruefully,  and  to  please  him  she  ate  the  peach  he  peeled 
for  her  and  a  few  sweets. 

They  had  lost  the  sense  of  time  as  before,  and  when  at 
last  she  looked  at  her  watch,  Dolly  was  horrified  to  find 
she  was  due  back  on  duty  in  ten  minutes. 

"Don't  worry,  Beautiful,"  Theo  reassured  her.  "I'll 
telephone  for  a  taxi,  and  you'll  only  be  five  minutes  late. 
And  I  '11  take  you  out  to  it  and  show  you  the  easiest  way 
to  get  here  the  next  time. ' ' 

Next  time,  Dolly,  next  time? 

"Oh,  Theo,  I  can't  come  again,"  she  stammered;  "I 
mustn't,  it's  not  fair — I  vowed  it  should  only  be  this 
once." 

The  name  of  Helen  stuck  in  her  throat — she  could  not 
name  the  friend  she  had  betrayed,  nor  could  Theo  speak 
of  the  faithful  lover  he  had  wronged.  At  the  words  "not 
fair"  Theo's  face  darkened  and  his  lips  tightened. 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  muttered,  "for  Heaven's  sake 


184  DOWNWARD 

don't  play  with  me- — I  can't  stand  it.  You  must  come 
again — you  must!  My  God,  I  can't  lose  you  now!" 

He  seized  her  suddenly  by  the  shoulders  and  scanned 
her  face.  At  her  reproachful  eyes,  his  roughness  fell 
from  him.  He  pleaded  in  the  voice  that  was  so  difficult 
to  withstand. 

' '  Beautiful — be  kind  to  me !  Come  again !  Why  not  ? 
There's  no  harm  ..." 

Again  the  name  of  her  friend  strained  on  her  lips— in 
vain. 

".  .  .  no  harm,  I  want  you  so !  You  can't  think  what 
it  means  to  me  to  have  your  beautiful  presence  here  in 
my  rooms,  to  hold  your  beautiful  body  in  my  arms.  .  .  . 
Am  I  saying  too  much,  darling?  Do  I  speak  too  plainly? 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew  all  I  long  to  say  to  you !" 

"Oh,  don't!"  murmured  Dolly,  her  face  hidden. 

"Come  again,  then,  sweetheart,  just  once  more!  I've 
hardly  said  a  word  yet,  and  I've  been  waiting  for  you 
from  the  beginning  of  time — think  of  all  I  have  to  say 
to  you!  We  must  have  one  long  evening  together. 
Come  to  dinner  here,  on  your  next  half-day." 

"Oh,  Theo,  I  couldn't— at  night!" 

"Oh,  Dolly,  you're  a  woman  of  the  world,  aren't  you? 
You  know  there's  no  harm;  you  can  trust  me?" 

Theo  seemed  to  have  some  diabolical  instinct  for  using 
just  the  argument  most  calculated  to  appeal  to  Dolly. 
To  be  called  a  woman  of  the  world  was  to  be  put  on  her 
mettle.  She  did  not  want  to  show  herself  full  of  subur- 
ban fears,  like  Nurse  Morley — or  narrow-minded  like 
one  of  the  girls  at  the  convent.  She  prided  herself  on 
her  sensible  unconventionality. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  trust  you,  but  suppose  I  were  seen? 
And  it's  such  a  difficult  place  to  get  to." 

"It's  as  easy  as  possible  once  I've  shown  you  the  way, 
and  you  won't  be  seen,  it  will  be  pitch  dark." 

Both  knew  that  only  by  a  miracle  could  it  be  pitch 
dark  at  dinner-time  in  mid-July,  but  Dolly  said  nothing, 
Theo  went  on  in  his  fascinating,  persuasive  voice.  ' '  You 
must  come—think  how  glorious  it  will  be — a  long  eve- 


DOWNWARD  135 

ning  all  to  ourselves!  I've  such  heaps  to  say  to  yon 
still — we'll  be  so  happy !  Come,  Love ;  say  you'll  come !" 

The  word  Love  affected  Dolly's  imagination.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  used  it,  and  with  all  his  passion  he 
had  not  yet  said :  "I  love  you/'  that  simple  avowal  so 
unutterably  dear  to  a  woman. 

For  a  man  Theo  was  exceptionally  intuitive ;  he  read 
her  thoughts  in  her  face,  and  hastened  to  turn  them  to 
account.  "You  know  I  love  you,"  he  repeated  ardently, 
his  arms  round  her.  "You  know  I  love  you,  Beau- 
tiful!" 

"Do  you,  Theo?"  she  whispered;  "tell  me  so." 

"Haven't  I  been  telling  you  all  the  time?  Haven't  I 
been  telling  you  so  every  minute  since  I  first  saw  you? 
Didn't  I  tell  you  so  in  the  Park,  and  haven't  I  told  you 
a  hundred  times  at  Meredith  House?" 

"What !  when  you  did  nothing  but  glare  at  me?  You 
never  gave  me  a  friendly  word  even!" 

' '  That  was  because  I  never  felt  friendly  towards  you, 
because  I  knew  that  I  could  only  be  your  lover — never 
your  friend!" 

"And  why  did  you  always  scowl  at  me  so,  Theo?" 

"Ah,  I  scowled  to  stop  myself  from  telling  you  that  I 
loved  you ! ' ' 

The  words  "I  love  you"  gave  Dolly  the  keenest  joy, 
and  as  he  repeated  them  over  and  over  again,  she 
thought,  as  she  had  often  thought  before,  how  strange 
it  is  that  a  woman  is  so  anxious  to  hear  that  fatal  sen- 
tence spoken,  which  a  man  almost  always  takes  for 
granted — on  the  part  of  a  woman. 

Theo,  for  instance,  never  asked  her  if  she  loved  him. 
How  strange  it  is  that  men  are  always  convinced  of 
woman's  love,  and  never  seek  to  be  assured  of  it.  Even 
when  a  woman  is  deceiving  a  man,  and  encouraging  him 
for  some  particular  reason,  being  in  reality  entirely  in- 
different to  him  in  her  heart — still  he  never  dreams  of 
doubting  that  she  loves  him.  The  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  is  to  make  a  man  imagine  that  he  is  loved;  as  a 
rule  he  does  so  without  any  making  at  all.  A  woman  is 


186  DOWNWARD 

sometimes  obliged  to  repel  a  man  with  positive  insults 
before  he  will  believe  she  does  not  love  him,  and  even 
then  he  is  only  half  convinced,  and  probably  concludes 
she  is  assuming  indifference  out  of  pique,  or  because 
he  has  not  nattered  her  enough!  This  strange  self- 
satisfaction  is  doubtless  intended  by  Nature  as  a  special 
protection;  it  would  never  do  for  Nature's  purpose  if 
men  were  too  thin-skinned ! 

When  they  were  making  their  way  to  the  gate  where 
Theo  had  told  the  taxi-cab  to  wait,  Dolly  found  herself 
agreeing  that  she  would  come  to  dinner,  "just  once." 

"But  I  must  come  in  black,"  she  added,  "and 
swathed  in  black  veils  from  head  to  foot." 

' '  Oh,  no !  that  would  attract  more  attention  than  any- 
thing. That  would  look  guilty.  Come  in  white,  do — 
I'm  sure  you'll  look  more  deadly  than  ever  in  evening- 
dress." 

Dolly  had  not  thought  of  wearing  evening-dress,  but 
now  she  resolved  to,  however  conspicuous  it  might  make 
her  arrival.  She  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  the 
white  chiffon  she  had  had  for  Monte  Carlo  was  still  in 
the  fashion  and  almost  unworn. 

"Deadly !"  she  repeated,  with  a  smile.  "I'm  not  sure 
that  that's  very  complimentary." 

"It's  true,  you're  quite  the  deadliest  woman  I've  ever 
known.  You  ought  to  be  locked  up,  you  know,  kept 
under  a  glass  case.  You  ought  to  go  veiled,  and  cover 
those  fatal  eyes  of  yours  with  blue  glasses.  They  under- 
stand women  like  you  better  in  the  East,  my  Lady  of  the 
Enchanted  Hair!  ...  I  want  to  paint  you — as  Circe — 
as  Life — as  the  Lorelei.  We  must  talk  about  it  on 
Wednesday ;  we  must  talk  about  everything  on  Wednes- 
day. Wednesday!  It's  the  loveliest  word  in  the  lan- 
guage. My  God!  it's  a  week  off.  ...  Beautiful,  how 
am  I  going  to  live  through  this  weekt" 

Dolly  wondered  how  often  he  saw  Helen  in  a  week, 
how  often  he  would  see  her  in  this  next  week,  and  how 
he  would  behave  to  her.  She  wondered  what  was  his 
attitude  of  mind  as  regards  Helen.  Was  it  possible  he 


DOWNWARD  187 

fancied  that  she,  Dolly,  did  not  know  of  the  engage- 
ment? He  had  absolutely  ignored  the  fact  that  he  was 
bound  to  another  woman.  The  name  of  Helen  had  never 
once  been  spoken  between  them. 

For  Dolly's  part,  the  recollection  of  Helen — so  sweet, 
so  trusting — contracted  her  heart  with  a  horrible  pang. 
She  felt  the  thought  to  be  unbearable  and  shut  it  from 
her  mind,  lest  it  spoil  her  new  joy.  Just  once — just 
once  more  she  would  meet  Theo — just  once  more  she 
would  give  herself  up  to  this  intoxicating  madness  that 
had  suddenly  illumined  the  dullness  of  her  life,  and 
then,  never  again!  She  would  end  it,  stamp  it  out. 
And  she  would  warn  Helen ;  she  would  manage  somehow 
to  warn  Helen  to  look  after  her  fiance  better.  With 
feminine  lack  of  logic,  she  felt  her  conscience  relieved  at 
this  idea  of  warning — when  it  was  already  too  late. 


XIII 

THERE  was  great  excitement  in  Meredith  House.  No 
less  a  person  had  arrived  than  the  wonderful  Lady 
Angela  Strood,  in  whom  Very  Great  Personages  were 
said  to  have  been  deeply  interested.  She  had  been  sud- 
denly taken  ill  in  the  house  of  her  sister,  the  Duchess 
of  Lakeminster,  and  Dr.  Walter  Gordon  had  prescribed 
her  immediate  removal  to  the  nursing  home  for  an  ope- 
ration by  Hereford  Williams.  She  had  fallen  to  Nurse 
Morley's  lot  and  that  little  person,  very  flushed  and 
excited,  was  now  reciting  to  the  interested  circle  of 
nurses  the  wonders  of  Lakeminster  House,  from  whence 
she  had  fetched  the  great  lady  under  the  doctor's 
supervision. 

"Oh,  you  should  have  seen  the  bedroom!  The  maid 
said  it  was  the  Duchess'  own  room.  Oh,  you  should 
have  seen  the  bed! — the  curtains  were  of  white  satin, 
veiled  with  white  chiffon — think  of  it — chiffon!  And 
there  was  the  most  lovely  old  lace  quilt  mounted  on 
satin,  just  like  a  ball-dress — and  the  pillows  were  run 
through  with  lilac  ribbons,  and,  oh !  such  lace  round  the 
edge  of  them !  And  the  carpet  was  white  actually,  pat- 
terned with  wreaths  of  lilac  and  pink  roses — I  hardly 
dared  step  on  it.  All  the  hangings  were  lilac,  and 
the  sofa  cushions  were  covered  with  tucked  pink  chiffon, 
and  all  the  flowers  in  the  room  were  pink  roses  and  car- 
nations— such  masses  of  them!  And  oh!  the  dressing- 
tables  !  she  had  two — one  covered  with  gold  toilet  things 
and  the  other  with  tortoise-shell  ones.  The  wash-stand 
ware  was  made  of  crystal;  it  glittered  like  little  dia- 
monds, and  her  towels — oh !  you  never  saw  anything  so 
lovely  as  her  towels!  They  were  ..."  and  so  on,  and 
so  on. 

138 


DOWNWARD  189 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  all  sorts  of  princelings  and 
dukelings  round  here  now,"  said  Nurse  Brooks,  "com- 
ing to  inquire  and  bring  flowers.  You  are  lucky,  Mor- 
ley,  to  get  her.  I  wish  I  had !  I  've  been  fearfully  dull 
since  Mrs.  Knowle*  left.  She  and  Julian-darling  were 
so  interesting." 

"Well,  the  Duke  of  Deerham  will  be  here  for  one," 
said  Nurse  Dickenson,  whose  brain  contained  an  ency- 
clopaedia of  the  alleged  amours  of  the  great,  compiled 
from  heaven  alone  knows  what  unsavory  sources,  and 
which  she  took  a  pride  in  keeping  up  to  date — no  easy 
task. 

"Won't  it  be  fun!"  said  Nurse  Brooks,  clapping  her 
hands.  "Be  sure  to  tell  us  everything,  Morley,  won't 
you  ? ' ' 

"Hush!"  interposed  Nurse  Clifford,  sternly.  "If 
any  one  were  to  hear  you,  Brooks!  You  know  we're 
supposed  not  to  repeat  anything  about  our  patients." 

"I  know  we're  supposed  not  to  do  lots  of  things,"  re- 
plied the  younger  woman  with  a  grimace.  "At  St. 
George's,  for  instance,  the  nurses  are  strictly  forbidden 
to  speak  to  the  doctors  and  students,  and  yet  dozens  of 
them  get  engaged  to  be  married.  I  suppose  it's  all  done 
by  telepathy  or  will-power!" 

"If  Sister  had  heard  you,  there  would  have  been  a 
row.  She's..."  the  opeaker  looked  cautiously  up  the 
landings  above  and  below  and  then  continued:  "she's 
awfully  vexed  to-day  already  about  Tregonin  leaving 
town." 

"Is  Helen  leaving  town?"  asked  Dolly,  with  sudden 
anxiety. 

"Yes,  going  to  Eastbourne  for  a  week  with  Miss 
Raven.  Anthony  worried  Sister  into  consenting;  he's 
sick  of  having  illness  in  his  house  and  wants  to  get  rid 
of  her,  no  doubt.  And  now  Sister's  annoyed  with 
herself  for  giving  in." 

"We're  short-handed  as  it  is,  with  Lady  Angela  just 
come,"  grumbled  Nurse  Brooks,  "we  shall  all  have  to 
put  in  some  extra  work  till  Lady  Walter  goes  or 


140  DOWNWARD 

Tregonin  comes  back.  When  is  Lady  Walter  going, 
Fitz?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dolly,  preoccupied  with  her 
thoughts.  Helen  was  going  away!  Helen  was  going 
away! 

"She's  made  a  wonderful  recovery,  hasn't  she,  Fitz?" 
said  Nurse  Brooks.  The  question  had  to  be  repeated. 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Dolly,  absently.  She 
dreaded  Lady  Walter's  going,  yet  desired  it.  This  ser- 
vice to  Theo's  mother  was  dear  to  her;  she  prized  the 
link  between  them,  but  for  Helen's  sake  and  for  the 
sake  of  her  good  resolutions  she  longed  to  cut  the  tie. 
Once  his  mother  had  left,  Theo  would  have  no  excuse  to 
come  to  Meredith  House  except  to  visit  Helen. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  that,"  Nurse  Clifford  was 
saying;  "I've  seen  many  cases  like  Lady  Walter's,  and 
I've  never  known  them  to  survive  long.  If  I  were 
Anthony,  I  wouldn't  let  her  leave  till  she's  made  more 
progress;  in  any  case,  she's  not  long  for  this  world,  I'm 
convinced." 

"Really,  Cliff,  you  think  that?"  asked  Dolly,  some- 
what startled.  She  knew  how  correct  the  senior  nurse's 
judgments  were  in  such  matters,  and  how  more  than 
once  she  had  been  right  and  the  specialists  wrong. 
Here  was  a  fresh  complication.  If  Lady  Walter  went, 
Helen  would  probably  go  with  her  for  a  time,  and  in- 
evitably Theo  too.  Theo  would  leave  town  and  be  with 
Helen.  Dolly  knew  this  was  probably  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen,  but  a  fierce  jealousy  consumed  her 
at  the  thought.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Lady  Walter 
stayed,  she  might  die  at  Meredith  House,  and  Dolly 
would  suffer  the  misery  of  seeing  Theo's  grief,  Helen's 
grief,  and,  for  different  reasons,  would  not  dare  show 
sympathy  with  either.  Most  of  all  she  dreaded  Helen's 
returning  to  her  work  and  meeting  her  every  day  on  the 
former  intimate  terms. 

What  a  muddle  everything  was  getting  into.  Dolly 
could  not  see  the  end.  Never  mind,  there  was  Wednes- 
day!— Wednesday,  for  which  she  longed  as  she  had 


DOWNWARD  141 

never  longed  for  any  day  in  her  life  before.  One  glori- 
ous evening  was  before  her — she  would  think  only  of 
that,  concentrate  herself  on  that,  drain  every  drop  of 
sweetness  and  then  fling  away  the  cup  ready  for  what- 
ever battle  might  be  beyond. 

"Wednesday  and  Theo!"  she  thought  to  herself,  and 
it  was  sweet  to  think  that  he,  too,  was  longing  for  the 
day  and  saying  "Wednesday  and  Dolly  1" 


XIV 

ON  Wednesday  morning  Dolly  awoke  very  early,  and 
her  first  thought  was  "To-day!"  She  felt  so  happy, 
so  glad.  Through  the  open  window  the  fresh  morning 
air  was  stealing,  and  the  early  sunbeams  fell  on  the 
uncarpeted  floor.  She  recalled  that  night  only  a  few 
weeks  back,  when  she  had  looked  at  the  stars  after  her 
evening  with  Colin  Lester.  How  unhappy  she  had  been 
that  night,  and  yet  all  the  time  this  great  gladness  was 
in  store  for  her. 

"I  suppose  I'm  very  wicked,"  she  thought,  ''but  it's 
astonishing  how  happy  I  am  in  spite  of  it.  I've  never 
done  a  really  mean,  bad  thing  like  this  before,  and  yet 
I've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life.  I  expect  I  shall 
soon  be  punished  most  awfully,  but  I  don't  care;  it's 
worth  it!" 

Then  she  fell  to  thinking  of  Theo,  and,  according  to 
the  strange  habit  of  women  in  love,  she  went  over  those 
two  interviews  in  her  mind,  word  for  word,  detail  for 
detail,  re-living  every  instant  of  that  meeting  in  the 
Park,  and  the  visit  to  his  rooms,  as  she  had  done  a 
hundred  times  already. 

Now  at  last  the  day  had  come,  her  fear  that  something 
might  even  now  happen  to  prevent  the  meeting  grew  in 
intensity.  When  at  twelve  o'clock  a  telegram  was 
handed  to  her,  her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  "It's 
all  over,"  she  told  herself,  tearing  open  the  envelope 
Avith  fingers  that  trembled.  But  it  ran: 

"Fitzgerald,  Meredithiana,  London. 
"Will  you  do  pit  until  me  to-night,  Hay  market  or 
Garrickf    Reply  Stuart." 

142 


DOWNWARD  143 

The  relief  was  so  great  Dolly  could  have  laughed  fa 
joy  as  she  wrote  out  a  negative  reply. 

"Poor  old  Stuart  will  have  to  sit  in  some  pit  alone 
to-night,"  she  thought.  Poor  Nurse  Stuart,  who  had  no 
exciting  tete-a-tete  dinner  party  in  prospect.  Poor 
Nurse  Stuart,  who  had  no  goodly  lover  to  kiss  the  hem 
of  her  garment.  Dolly  felt  a  passionate  pity  for  all 
women  who  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be  utterly 
absorbed  heart  and  soul  in  one  well-beloved. 

As  she  held  the  door  of  Lady  Walter's  room  open  for 
Dr.  Haven,  he  noted  her  shining  eyes  and  the  joy  that 
irradiated  from  her  whole  face.  He  stopped  short  for 
a  second  in  the  doorway.  Who  shall  say  what  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  dark  look  he  gave  her? 

Dolly  looked  him  proudly  in  the  face,  a  hint  of  de- 
fiance in  the  carriage  of  her  head.  "No  one  can  make 
me  unhappy  now,"  her  eyes  seemed  to  say;  "you  are 
powerless  to  hurt  me.  I  have  a  shield,  a  talisman, 
against  all  attacks." 

Later  she  was  told  that  Lady  Walter  was  leaving 
Meredith  House  on  Friday,  and  that  Helen,  released  on 
that  day  from  Miss  Raven,  was  to  accompany  her  aunt 
to  the  latter 's  home  in  the  country. 

"What  a  mercy  it  had  not  been  to-day!"  Dolly 
thought,  as  Theo  would  surely  have  had  to  go  with  his 
mother.  All  was  turning  out  for  the  best.  She  was 
glad  Helen  was  at  Eastbourne ;  she  would  not  have  liked 
to  feel  that  Helen  was  in  town  to-night — so  near.  She 
was  glad  Theo  would  have  to  go  away  immediately  after 
this  meeting,  and  thus  it  would  be  made  easy  for  her  to 
keep  her  resolves.  To-night  was  hers — hers  only !  After 
to-night — nothing  mattered.  She  would  have  had  her 
hour,  and  the  memory  would  keep  joy  alive  in  her  for  a 
long  time. 

She  had  thought  no  more  of  leaving  Meredith  House 
and  going  on  the  stage,  nor  yet  of  her  approaching 
holiday.  From  the  day  she  had  met  Theo  in  the  Park 
everything  else,  past  and  future,  seemed  to  have  been 
blotted  out.  Love's  bondage  was  as  yet  sweet  to  her* 


144  DOWNWARD 

"Half -days"  begin  as  soon  as  the  patient  is  settled 
after  lunch.  At  last  the  long  morning  was  over  and 
Dolly  was  free.  Just  before  she  went  off  duty,  Sister 
Meredith  sent  for  her,  and,  with  some  show  of  depreca- 
tion, asked  if  she  would  mind  postponing  her  holiday 
in  view  of  the  staff  being  short-handed.  The  girl  ac- 
quiesced with  such  cheerful  readiness  that  Sister  Mere- 
dith's heart  warmed  to  her. 

"It's  really  very  nice  of  yon,  Fitzgerald,  and  I  shan't 
forget  it.  No.  5  will  be  vacant  to-day,  but  there'll  be 
an  hemiplegia  coming  on  Monday,  whom  I  mean  to  put 
there,  and  Lady  Walter's  room's  already  booked  by  a 
very  bad  case  which  will  mean  ovariotomy.  Would  you 
rather  have  that  or  the  hemiplegia?" 

"I  don't  mind,  Sister,  whichever  suits  you  best.  I 
suppose  they  are  both  old  ladies,  anyway?" 

Sister  Meredith  laughed  heartily.  "Poor  Pitz,  the 
old  grievance!  As  it  happens,  one  is  quite  a  young 
woman  and  the  other's  a  middle-aged  one.  It's  a  nui- 
sance being  so  full.  Last  week  I  had  to  refuse  two 
hernias  and  a  neurasthenia." 

Dolly  seized  the  opportunity  to  ask  "extra  late"  time 
that  night,  "on  account  of  a  party,"  and  Sister  Mere- 
dith answered  genially,  "Certainly,  my  dear;  stay  out 
till  twelve,  and  enjoy  yourself. ' ' 

Dolly  thought  the  afternoon  would  never  pass.  She 
went  down  Bond  Street  and  had  her  hair  shampooed. 
As  she  listened  to  the  French  hairdresser's  exclamations 
over  its  glory  she  thought  shyly  how  she  would  like  to 
show  it  to  Theo. 

On  her  return  to  the  nursing  home  she  lay  on  her  bed 
and  tried  to  rest.  At  last  it  was  time  to  dress — at  an 
absurdly  early  hour.  She  lingered  lovingly  over  every 
detail  of  her  toilet  and  took  more  time  than  she  had  ever 
done  in  her  life  before.  To-day  there  seemed  to  be  a 
special  significance  about  everything  she  did. 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  be  in  love — good  to  be  young  and 
alive! — good  to  be  going  to  meet  one's  lover,  even  if 
there  were  no  to-morrow ! 


DOWNWARD  145 

At  last  she  was  ready — at  last  it  was  time  to  start. 
She  stole  down  the  stairs,  darkly  cloaked,  a  white  lace 
wrap  round  her  head.  It  did  not  please  her  that  any 
one  should  see  her  but  Theo.  At  last  she  was  whirling 
through  the  streets  in  the  closed  taxi.  How  hot  it  was — 
how  her  heart  was  beating! 

Now  she  was  hastening  through  the  narrow  alleys  of 
the  Temple ;  there  were  fewer  people  about  at  night,  and 
she  kept  the  lace  wrap  tight  round  her  face.  Now  she 
was  speeding  up  Theo's  stairs — up,  and  up,  and  up — 
the  swish  of  her  skirts  more  than  ever  like  a  storm-wind, 
but  what  cared  she?  Now  she  was  at  her  lover's  door, 
and  it  flew  open  before  she  knocked.  Now  she  was  in 
Theo's  arms  and  all  the  stars  were  falling.  .  .  . 

How  sweet  the  secret  meeting  of  lovers  at  night — to 
steal  through  the  streets,  counting  one's  mad  heart- 
throbs, to  know  the  other  is  watching  and  waiting  and 
counting  heart-throbs  too,  to  have  doors  fall  open  at 
one's  approach — and  then  at  last  that  locking  of  the 
arms,  that  locking  of  the  lips,  the  slaking  of  that  long, 
long  thirst  in  the  joy  of  the  Beloved's  presence. 

It  was  quite  dark  in  Theo's  passage  .  .  .  presently  he 
whispered,  "Sh!  Victor  is  here,"  and  led  her  into  the 
room  she  knew. 

It  was  lit  with  many  beautifully  shaded  lights.  Theo 
helped  her  off  with  her  wraps.  Her  soft,  white  chiffon 
dress  foamed  out  at  her  feet.  She  wore  silver  shoes,  as 
Theo  had  pictured;  a  silvery  band  encircled  her  waist. 
In  her  hair  was  a  pale  blue  ribbon,  at  her  breast  a  white 
rose  framed  in  green  leaves.  Her  young,  round  arms 
and  bosom  were  bare ;  in  her  eyes  love  was  shining,  and 
the  power  to  give  dreams  was  on  her  sweet,  parted  lips. 

Theo  could  find  no  words  to  express  his  rapture.  They 
looked  at  each  other,  softly  smiling — utterly  content. 

The  Polish  man-servant  served  the  dinner  and  waited 
noiselessly.  It  had  been  sent  in  from  outside,  and 
doubtless  Theo  had  spent  some  thought  and  a  good  deal 
of  money  on  ensuring  its  perfection,  but  it  might  have 
been  the  "mush"  of  her  school-days  for  all  Dolly  knew 


146  DOWNWARD 

to  the  contrary.  She  remembered  afterwards  eating 
some  iced  melon  at  the  beginning  and  that  there  were 
red  roses  in  antique  glasses  on  the  table.  She  remem- 
bered at  first  refusing  wine,  but  yielding  when  Theo 
urged  it  on  her,  and  being  surprised  to  find  that  eventu- 
ally she  had  drunk  a  couple  of  glasses.  Beyond  this  she 
could  recall  nothing. 

The  meal  concluded,  Victor  wheeled  the  small  table 
right  out  of  the  room.  Theo  and  Dolly  lit  cigarettes  and 
wandered  about  whilst  he  showed  her  his  pictures  and 
different  treasures. 

Barely  a  whiff  or  two  of  the  cigarettes  they  took,  and 
even  the  black  coffee  remained  all  but  untasted.  Dolly 
took  a  green  liqueur,  because  of  its  colour,  she  said,  and 
Theo  was  absurdly  pleased  at  this.  From  early  training 
colour  was  a  craze  with  him. 

"Now  we'll  be  happy,"  he  said,  as  Victor  left  them 
for  the  last  time,  "utterly,  madly  happy!  It's  only 
nine  o'clock;  we've  got  nearly  three  glorious  hours  to- 
gether. Dolly,  you  beautiful  darling,  I  want  to  see  you 
walking  up  and  down  this  room  of  mine." 

"What  an  absurd  boy  you  are,  Theo!" 

"True,  I'm  three  parts  mad  as  a  rule,  but  now  I'm 
intensely  sane — saner  than  I've  ever  been  before.  The 
wisest  and  most  sublime  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  was 
when  I  persuaded  you — the  god  of  lovers  alone  knows 
how — to  give  me  these  exquisite  hours.  Isn't  happiness 
the  highest  wisdom  in  this  cruel,  groaning  and  travailing 
world  ?  Isn  't  it  a  supreme  achievement  to  snatch  a  little 
joy  in  the  face  of  this  brutal,  hideous,  black  Destiny 
that  has  placed  us  in  this  appalling  century,  nearly 
three  thousand  years  too  late !  You  and  I  should  have 
been  ancient  Greeks,  Beloved;  they  would  have  wor- 
shipped you  as  a  goddess  in  Greece  in  olden  times  and 
burnt  you  as  a  witch  in  England  a  century  or  two  ago ! 
But  now  walk  down  the  room,  Dolly,  do — and  let  me 
watch  you." 

' '  But  why— tell  me  why  ? ' ' 

"Because  you  walk  so  wonderfully;  you  seem  to  have 


DOWNWARD  14.7 

no  bones.  I've  known  other  women  like  that  before.  .  .  f 
Have  you  ever  seen  Otero  at  Monte  Carlo?" 

"No,  I've  only  been  once  and  she  wasn't  there.*' 

"It's  worth  going  all  the  way  across  England  and 
France  to  see  Otero  walk  down  the  Rooms — so  quiet,  so 
beautiful,  with  her  wonderful  jewels  gleaming,  and  men 
and  women  all  standing  staring  after  her — quite  silly 
and  mazed.  I  once  heard  Lady  Bertram  Blayne  say 
when  Otero  had  passed  like  a  pageant,  'Ah,  well,  we 
could  all  walk  like  that  in  that  bolero  of  emeralds.' 
Fancy  the  absurdity — Lady  Bertram,  with  her  red  wig 
and  the  worst  make-up  in  "Wiltshire!  And  you're  just 
the  same,  Dolly!" 

"What?    I  the  same  as  Lady  Bertram!" 

' '  No,  no !  your  walk  is  just  like  Otero 's,  and  you  have 
that  same  beauteous  bonelessness.  Am  I  rude,  Dolly? 
Do  my  remarks  annoy  you?  I  can't  help  it,  you  know; 
it's  your  fault.  But  you're  not  getting  on  with  your 
cigarette. ' ' 

"Nor  are  you." 

"And  your  coffee's  cold — we're  both  equally  silly, 
aren't  we?  But  you  must  take  your  liqueur." 

"I  must;  it's  so  beautiful." 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  heavy  door  shutting  close  by. 
They  both  started.  "It's  only  Victor  going  out — to  his 
club, ' '  Theo  said.  Dolly  realized  that  she  was  now  quite 
alone  in  the  flat  with  him.  He  seemed  to  divine  her 
feeling  and  began  to  talk  hurriedly. 

"Yes,  take  your  liqueur.  Some  day  I  mean  to  do  a 
mad  picture  in  which  the  motif  shall  be  a  glorious  green 
liqueur  and  all  kinds  of  tulips.  I'm  crazy  about  tulips, 
you  know;  I  could  wonder  myself  to  death  about 
them.  Tulips — the  Gesneriana  that  flower  in  May,  rose- 
coloured  with  black  hearts — like  lovely  oourtesans,  and 
the  yellow  ones  rising  from  their  green  sheaths,  the 
purest  and  sheerest  green  and  yellow  in  all  nature's 
paint-box!  And  the  Parrot  tulips,  like  strange,  bright 
birds — they  almost  speak!  There's  no  flower  to  equal 
tulips,  though  sweet-peas  are  full  of  dreams  too.  If  only 


148  DOWNWARD 

the  tulips  had  the  sweet-peas'  scent,  life  would  be  too 
perfect.  That's  why  these  heavenly  things  only  last  a 
few  weeks  in  the  year — it  would  be  too  much,  too  much 
for  us  poor  mortals  to  have  them  always." 

They  were  standing  still  now  by  the  grand  piano. 
Dolly  saw  that  he  was  talking  extravagantly  because  he 
dared  not  be  silent.  "Ah,  well,"  he  continued,  "if  you 
once  begin  to  think  seriously  about  flowers  you  can 
wonder  yourself  into  madness." 

Poor  Theo,  he  was  very  near  madness  himself  just 
then.  He  had  over-estimated  his  own  strength  and 
coolness,  and  was  beginning  to  realize  it.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  flung  his  arms 
around  her. 

"Ah,  Dolly,"  he  muttered,  between  his  wild  kisses  on 
her  throat  and  lips  and  hair,  "Nature  was  in  deadly 
earnest  when  she  made  you !"  He  drew  her  to  the  divan 
and  they  sat  down  side  by  side. 

"There  is  pain  in  this,"  he  said,  "pain  for  us  both, 
and  I  did  not  want  to  give  you  pain,  my  Beautiful" — 
his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — "do  you  suffer,  Dolly,  do 
you  suffer  as  I  do?  No,  don't  tell  me;  I  don't  want  to 
hear  you  say  it!" 

"It's  worth  it,"  said  Dolly,  faintly. 

"Ah,  how  I  bless  you  for  saying  that — how  wonder- 
fully you  understand!  Do  you  know  those  lines  of 
Burton's? 

"  'How  ~brew  the  brave  drink,  Lifef 
Take  of  the  herb  hight  Morning  Joy, 
Take  of  the  herb  hight  Evening  Rest, 
Stir  in  Pain  lest  Bliss  should  cloy, 
Shake  in  Sin  to  give  it  zest. 
Then  down  with  the  brave  drink, — Life!'  " 

Then  suddenly  he  made  the  avowal  she  had  been 
expecting  all  the  time. 

"D'you  know — I  never  meant  this  to  come  about. 
*  you  believe  that,  don't  you?    The  very  first  time 


DOWNWARD  149 

I  saw  you  in  my  mother's  room  at  the  nursing  home  I 
thought:  'My  God,  here's  a  woman  who  could  mean  the 
sun  and  moon  to  me,  who'd  waft  me  to  the  skies  and 
bring  all  heaven  to  my  feet.'  And  I  vowed  I'd  keep 
away  from  you — you  know  why.  And  I  longed, — oh! 
how  I  longed  to  get  to  know  you,  and  talk  to  you,  and  to 
make  love  to  you — mad  love !  And  sometimes  I  longed 
to  kill  you  and  then  myself.  .  .  .  But  you  felt  some- 
thing of  it,  didn't  you,  sweet,  although  you  only  saw  my 
scowls?" 

"I  felt  it,"  Dolly  answered. 

"And  here  we  are,  in  spite  of  it  all.  You're  here  in 
my  arms,  piercing  my  heart — drowning  the  soul  of  me. 
So  Nature  mocks  at  our  puny  little  efforts !  I  suppose 
it's  a  screaming  jest  to  her  to  see  us  struggling  in  the 
grip  of  the  Life-Force.  ..." 

Suddenly  he  started  up.  "That's  it!  That's  how  I 
must  paint  you,  Dolly  —  as  the  Life-Force !  Surely 
you're  the  Life-Force  Incarnate!" 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  where  she 
sat,  talking  excitedly. 

' '  I  would  paint  you  swathed  in  shimmering  draperies 
— soft,  like  moonshine,  faintly  tinted  with  mother-of- 
pearl,  or  should  it  be  pink? — softest  pink  round  the 
shoulders,  deepening  to  brilliant  rose  at  the  feet.  .  .  . 
And  your  hair  should  hang  all  around  you — the  sun- 
light shining  round  the  Life-Force — glorious!  You're 
the  Spring-song  too.  You're  Mother  Nature  brooding 
over  the  earth  after  winter — at  the  sight  of  you  a  quick- 
ening wave  of  life  rushes  over  the  world!  'The  wild 
Spring,  with  its  chances  and  dreams' — that's  Dolly!  I 
should  like  to  paint  you  as  them  all,  but  I  could  never 
get  your  face,  Dolly — incarnate  Life-Force — that  face 
of  yours  that  makes  the  sap  rise  in  the  trees  and  calls  to 
the  seeds  to  ripen  and  the  earth  to  bring  forth.  ..." 

All  at  once  his  stream  of  words  ceased ;  he  seemed  to 
lose  the  thread  of  his  speech.  He  sat  down  a  little  dis- 
tance off,  his  head  bent,  looking  at  her  from  beneath  his 


150  DOWNWARD 

brows.  He  was  very  pale,  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  his 
forehead,  one  lock  of  dark  hair  lay  across  his  temples. 

There  fell  a  perilous  silence,  and  the  man  and  woman 
were  conscious  of  their  hearts'  wild  beating.  .  .  . 

"Play  to  me,  Theo,"  said  Dolly,  a  little  tremulously, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration,  and  he  started  up,  exclaiming 
huskily,  "The  very  thing!" 

Theo  crossed  over  to  the  grand  piano  at  the  far  end  of 
the  studio  and  began  to  rearrange  the  lights.  From 
where  he  stood  he  switched  off  all  the  lamps  at  Dolly's 
end  of  the  room  except  one  that  sent  a  flood  of  light  over 
the  divan  where  she  sat. 

' '  I  want  to  see  you  as  I  play, ' '  he  said, ' '  resting  on  the 
cushions,  with  your  little  silver  feet  just  peeping  out,  as 
I've  imagined  you  so  often.  Isn't  it  strange  I  knew  you 
would  have  silver  shoes?" 

Dolly  lay  on  the  divan  and  listened.  Theo  was  a  fine 
performer,  and  had  a  gift  of  expressing  music.  As  the 
glorious  strains  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  Apassionata 
filled  the  room,  the  very  air  seemed  electrified  with  the 
passion  and  longing  that  surged  in  the  young  man's 
heart. 

Then  he  sang  a  verse  or  two  of  Gounod's  beautiful 
Priere,  composed  to  Sully-Prudhomme '8  words: 

Ah!  si  vous  saviez  comme  on  pleure 
De  vivre  seul  et  sans  foysr 
Quelquefois,  devant  ma  demeurt, 
Vous  passeriez. 

8i  vous  saviez  ce  que  fait  naitre 
Dans  I'ame  triste  un  pur  regard 
Vous  regarderiez  ma  fenetre 
Comme  au  hasard. 

8i  vous  saviez  quel  baume  apporte 
Au  coeur  la  presence  d'un  coeur, 
Vous  vous  assoiriez  sous  ma  porte 
Gommt  une  soeur. 


DOWNWARD  151 

Si  vous  saviez  que  je  vous  aime, 
Surtout,  si  vous  saviez  comment, 
Vous  entreriez  peutStre  meme 
Tout  simplement! 

His  voice  was  sweet  and  thrilling.  Dolly  could  hardly 
bear  it. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Dolly?  I  thought  you  would.  The 
English  version  is  charming  too: 

"  'Tour  heart  would  lead  you,  trembling,  longing — 
Sweet!  to  my  door.'  " 

"Trembling  and  longing,  Dolly,"  he  whispered,  more 
to  himself  than  to  her.  But  Dolly  heard  him. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  asked  her  to  sing.  She  re- 
fused ;  her  singing  voice  had  proved  a  grief  to  her.  His 
evident  disappointment  was  wounding  to  her  vanity. 
Then  she  thought  of  her  one  talent  and  sprang  up, 
clasping  her  hands  with  delight  at  the  inspiration. 

''I've  got  a  lovely  idea,  Theo,"  she  cried;  "I'll  dance 
to  you  and  you  shall  play." 

"Splendid !  Wait  a  minute,  I'll  turn  on  all  the  lights. 
You  see,  this  one  switch  by  the  piano  controls  the  whole 
lot.  Shall  I  clear  away  anything?" 

"No,  there's  plenty  of  room.  Now  play — let  me  see — 
play  Tschaiko vsky 's  'Casse-Noisette.'  " 

Theo  sat  down  again  at  the  piano.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  Dolly  began  to  dance. 


At  the  sight  of  Dolly,  dancing — Theo  thought  of  long 
beds  of  tulips,  their  heads  bending,  sweeping  to  and  fro 
in  the  wind — of  hedges  of  sweet-peas  climbing  to  the 
sky,  their  clinging  tendrils  catching  the  stars.  .  .  . 

At  the  sight  of  Dolly,  dancing — Theo  thought  of  the 
wild  radiance  of  moonlit  skies — of  the  mocking  laughter 
of  star-sprites — of  the  summer  rain  falling,  falling,  fall- 
ing in  the  night,  like  myriads  of  crystal  arrows — of 


152  DOWNWARD 

the  fragrance  of  the  green,  rain-washed  earth  after- 
wards. .  .  . 

At  the  sight  of  Dolly,  dancing — Theo  thought  of  wild 
winds  lashing  the  seas  to  fury — soft  winds  gently  sway- 
ing golden  corn-fields,  gently  stirring  Dolly's  golden 
hair.  .  .  .  Her  soft  chiffon  skirts  swirled  out  around 
her  like  the  petals  of  a  great  white  rose ;  the  blue  ribbon 
had  fallen  from  her  head;  and — see!  see! — the  great 
coil  of  her  hair  was  slowly  unbinding — slowly  falling, 
falling,  and  the  winds  were  blowing  it  to  the  four 
heavens  in  great  golden  clouds.  .  .  . 

Ah!  Dolly's  hair,  Dolly's  ensnaring  hair  falling  and 
flowing  around  her.  ...  Ah!  Dolly's  arms,  white,  beck- 
oning arms  that  maddened  so.  ...  Ah !  what  a  sight — 
Dolly,  dancing — dancing  to  her  doom. 

She  ceased,  breathless,  her  blue  eyes  afire — and  held 
out  her  hands  to  him.  .  .  . 

The  rest  of  the  world  faded  away.  .  .  .  She  forgot  all 
save  that  she  was  a  goddess  and  a  god  held  her  in  his 
embrace. 


XV 

IT  was  a  bright  moonlight  night,  and  when  Dolly 
and  Theo  stole  out  into  the  quadrangle  they  exclaimed 
at  the  multitudinous  radiance  of  the  stars.  As  Dolly 
put  up  her  hand  to  draw  the  white  lace  wrap  around  her 
head,  both  their  faces  were  plainly  visible  to  a  man  who 
stood  lighting  a  cigar  in  the  shadow  of  another  doorway. 

He  started  forward  in  surprise  and  muttered  angrily, 
as  if  the  sight  annoyed  him.  When  they  passed  out  of 
the  court  he  crossed  to  the  doorway  whence  they  had 
issued  and  studied  the  names  painted  up  on  the  lintel. 
Hurrying  after  them,  he  noted  from  a  little  distance 
how  they  stopped  before  the  Master's  house.  Theo 
seemed  to  be  calling  his  companion's  attention  to  the 
beauty  of  the  dignified  grey  buildings  bathed  in  the 
moonlight;  she  nodded,  apparently  too  dazed  to  notice 
details.  At  the  church,  too,  they  stayed  again  and  whis- 
pered together.  In  the  shadow  of  an  archway  the  silent 
watcher  saw  them  lingeringly  embrace. 


153 


XVI 

"I  TOLD  you  so!"  cried  Nurse  Dickenson,  excitedly, 
to  the  group  of  nurses  on  the  landing.  "The  Duke  of 
Deerham  has  come  to  see  Lady  Angela  again  I  He's  in 
the  waiting-room  with  Sister." 

"Surely  Sister  won't  let  him  see  her  so  soon  after  the 
operation?"  said  Nurse  Clifford. 

"Lady  Angela  will  be  mad  if  he's  sent  away  again," 
put  in  Nurse  Brooks.  "Morley  says  she  swore  like — 
like  a  cabman  yesterday  when  he  came  to  inquire  and 
wasn't  allowed  to  see  her." 

Nurse  Clifford  exclaimed  indignantly,  "Why  do 
these  idiotic  women  come  here,  on  purpose  to  get  the 
quiet  and  good  nursing  they  can't  get  in  their  own 
homes,  and  then  do  their  best  to  spoil  everything  by 
setting  all  the  rules  at  defiance?" 

"He's  coming  up!"  whispered  Nurse  Brooks,  excit- 
edly. "Sister  can't  withstand  the  ducal  frown,  you 
see!" 

A  very  tall,  very  pale  young  man,  clad  in  unostenta- 
tiously perfect  clothes,  was  stalking  up  the  stairs  in  the 
wake  of  Sister  Meredith,  whose  flushed  face  and  tightly 
closed  lips  betrayed  her  annoyance.  The  duke  gave  the 
group  of  nurses  a  languid  stare,  unconscious  of  the 
interest  he  was  exciting. 

"Isn't  he  like  a  greyhound?"  said  Nurse  Dickenson, 
when  he  had  passed. 

"Like  a  pedigree  one,  then,"  rejoined  Nurse  Brooks; 
"you  can  tell  at  a  glance  he's  somebody — there's  such  a 
look  of  race  about  him!" 

"Nonsense,  he  looks  exactly  like  any  other  smart 
man,"  cried  Nurse  Clifford;  "if  you  met  him  shop- 
walking  in  a  frock-coat  at  Peter  Robinson's,  you 
154 


DOWNWARD  155 

wouldn't  notice  the  look  of  race,  7  know.  What  do  yon 
say,  Fitz?" 

"Er— what  about?"  asked  Dolly,  absently. 

"The  Duke  of  Deerham,  of  course." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He's  just  passed,  with  Sister  —  mean  to  say  you 
didn't  notice?"  asked  Nurse  Brooks,  incredulously. 
"Oh,  don't  be  absurd;  what's  the  matter  with  you  this 
morning?  You  seem  half  asleep!" 

"Well,  I  had  a  bad  night." 

"S-sh!  Sister  will  be  back  in  a  minute  to  rag  us  for 
not  sitting  in  No.  5,"  said  the  senior  nurse.  "She's  in 
a  rage  already,  that's  plain,  and  you  know  she  likes  us 
to  sit  in  the  vacant  bedrooms  when  there  are  any." 

Two  bells  rang  simultaneously  and  the  group  of 
nurses  dispersed-  Only  Dolly  was  left  sitting  on  the 
stairs — her  head  in  her  hands. 

She  heard  a  man's  step  approaching  and  looked  up  in 
a  sudden  fear  that  it  might  be  Theo.  She  felt  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  meet  his  eyes  in  the  crude 
daylight. 

But  the  figure  coming  up  the  stairs  was  nearly  a  head 
taller  than  the  man  who  possessed  her  thoughts.  She 
started  up  on  meeting  the  keen  gaze  of  Dr.  Anthony 
Raven.  He  looked  very  stern  —  the  genial  "bedside 
manner"  had  disappeared.  In  his  eyes  she  saw  that 
strange,  bitter  animosity  that  was  becoming  familiar  to 
her  alone  among  the  nurses. 

He  came  straight  up  to  her,  to  her  intense  surprise, 
and  said — noticeably  ill  at  ease: 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Nurse  Fitzgerald." 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  faltered,  an  unpleasant  sinking  at  her 
heart. 

He  led  the  way,  evidently  with  premeditation,  to  the 
unoccupied  No.  5.  Seeing  the  sturdy  figure  of  Nurse 
Clifford  seated  there,  engaged  with  her  knitting,  he 
hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  advanced  into  the 
room.  For  the  senior  nurse  Dr,  Raven  had  a  great 
admiration  and  respect 


156  DOWNWARD 

"Er — Nurse  Clifford,  I  want  to  speak  to  Nurse  Fitz- 
gerald a  minute.  "Would  you — er — have  the  goodness 
to  see  I'm  not  disturbed?" 

"Yes,  sir."  She  walked  out,  her  face  respectfully 
blank  of  the  surprise  she  was  feeling. 

The  door  shut.  Dolly  stood  just  inside,  facing  the 
specialist.  In  front  of  them  the  full  length  mirror  in 
the  wardrobe  door  reflected  their  two  figures. 

Dolly  looked  unflinchingly  at  the  Doctor.  As  yet  she 
had  no  inkling  of  what  was  coming,  but  the  man's  severe 
mien  filled  her  with  forebodings  and  her  heart  fluttered 
painfully.  The  suspense  of  the  brief  silence  made  her 
feel  suddenly  quite  faint. 

At  last  Anthony  Raven  spoke. 

"I  saw  you  last  night,  Nurse  Fitzgerald,  and  I  want 
to  warn  you  that  you'll  lose  your  post  if  that  sort  of 
thing  goes  on." 

"You  s-s-saw  ..."  Dolly's  voice  trailed  away.  She 
put  her  hand  to  her  forehead — the  suddenness  of  the 
blow  seemed  to  stun  her.  For  one  hideous  second  she 
imagined  he  must  mean  he  had  been  present  in  Theo's 
room — must  have  seen.  .  .  . 

The  stern  voice  continued:  "Yes,  I  saw  you — leaving 
a  man's  rooms  at  midnight.  It  was  the  merest  chance  I 
was  visiting  a  friend  in  the  same  block  there  myself,  but 
any  one  else  might  have  seen  you.  Your  host  accom- 
panied you  out,  and  drove  with  you  as  far  as  Cavendish 
Square.  Evidently  it  was  a  tete-a-tete  party;  you  were 
alone  with  him.  Don't  deny  it." 

The  man's  bullying  tone  whipped  up  Dolly's  fainting 
courage  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  She  made  an 
effort  to  command  herself,  to  still  that  inward  trembling 
which  so  often  saps  a  woman's  self-control  in  poignant 
moments. 

"I  don't  deny  it,  sir,"  she  said,  quietly;  "what  is  it 
to  you?" 

Her  apparent  calmness  seemed  to  increase  his  anger. 

"It's  this  to  me,"  he  answered,  fiercely,  bringing  his 
face  close  to  hers  and  speaking  in  a  low,  furious  voice— 


DOWNWARD  157 

"that  111  not  have  the  nurses  of  any  institution  with 
which  I'm  connected  behaving  like  loose  women,  having 
assignations  in  men's  rooms  at  midnight " 

"I'm  not  a  loose  woman,"  said  Dolly,  between  her 
teeth,  and,  strange  to  say.  her  voice  was  exactly  like  his 
own.  "Who  are  you  to  dare  accuse  me?" 

"You'll  gain  nothing  by  impertinence!  I  meant  to 
warn  you,  but  since  this  is  the  way  you  take  it,  I  shall 
compel  you  to  send  in  your  resignation  to  Sister  Mere- 
dith. Women  like  you  are  not  wanted  in  the  nursing 
profession." 

At  this  starting  of  her  old  bugbear,  one  of  her  former 
fits  of  wild  rage  seized  upon  Dolly.  She  forgot  the 
deference  supposed  to  be  due  from  a  nurse  to  a  doctor ; 
she  forgot  that  he  had  the  power  to  harm  her  in  her 
profession.  Her  nostrils  quivered,  the  deadliest  light- 
nings glittered  in  her  eyes :  ' '  How  dare  you  say  that ! ' ' 
she  cried;  "what  do  you  care  for  the  honour  of  the 
nursing  profession?  You  know  I'm  a  first-class  nurse, 
and  yet  you  want  to  lose  me  my  post!  You're  a  rich 
man,  and  you  want  to  turn  a  working  woman  out  of  her 
calling!  Just  because  I'm  once  seen  in  a  compromising 
situation ' ' 

"Women  who  go  to  men's  rooms  late  at  night  are  not 
fit  for  this  calling!" 

"Pah!  it's  a  branch  of  your  own — is  your  own  life  so 
immaculate!  No !  only  you're  at  the  top  and  I'm  at  the 
bottom,  so  your  amours  can  be  public  property,  and 
are! — but  /  mustn't  deviate  one  inch  from " 

At  this  unexpected  turning  of  the  tables,  Dr.  Raven 
lost  control  of  himself  as  completely  as  Dolly  had  done. 
He  seized  the  girl's  arm. 

"You — little — devil!"  he  said,  venomously.  "Be 
careful!  Do  you  know  whom  you're " 

He  cheeked  himself  sharply  and  his  hand  went  to  his 
lips.  Fear  seemed  to  rush  into  his  eyes. 

"I  know  you  hate  me,"  Dolly  began,  and  then  the 
significance  of  his  uncompleted  sentence,  of  his  action, 
struck  on  her  inner  consciousness  and  arrested  her 


158  DOWNWARD 

speech.  At  that  instant  she  caught  sight  of  the  mirror 
where  they  were  reflected — the  two  pale,  fierce  faces, 
alike  in  their  pallor,  alike  in  their  fury,  alike  the  two 
straight  noses  with  quivering  nostrils,  alike  the  dark, 
even  brows,  alike  the  angry  gaze  of  their  blue  eyes. 

The  two  pairs  of  brilliant  blue  eyes  held  Dolly's  gaze. 
A  voice  from  the  past  re-echoed  from  some  far-distant 
cell  of  her  memory — her  mother's  dying  voice: 

"Your  eyes  are  so  like  his — so  like!" 

The  truth  smote  her — wild,  improbable,  amazing — but 
the  truth !  She  pointed,  speechless,  to  the  mirror. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  gasped.  "Look!  Why  .  .  .  yon— 
you  are  my  father!" 

Anthony  Raven  had  too  entirely  lost  the  mastery  of 
himself  even  to  protect  the  carefully  guarded  secret  of 
five  and  twenty  years. 

"Yes,  damn  you,  I  am  your  father!" — the  words  were 
torn  from  him — "and  that's  why  I  won't  have  you 
dragging  yourself  through  the  mud!" 

"As  you  dragged  mother!"  Dolly  was  strangely, 
dreadfully  calm  now,  and  to  the  storm  of  violent  words 
that  burst  from  the  man  in  answer  she  only  made  reply : 

"Haven't  you  don«  me  enough  harm  already, 
Father  f"  With  that  she  turned  and  walked  slowly  from 
the  room. 

It  was  a  day  of  destiny,  and  one  more  thread  re- 
mained to  be  woven.  Outside  the  door  Dolly  came 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  Theo.  It  was  the  last  ex- 
tremity. She  flung  her  hands  up  to  her  eyes,  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  him,  and  with  a  stifled  cry  rushed 
up  the  second  flight  of  stairs  and  disappeared. 

This  action  probably  altered  the  whole  course  of  -her 
life. 

Theo  stood  motionless  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
turned  sharply  round  and  walked  out  of  the  house. 

A  few  minutes  later  Dr.  Eaven  issued  from  No.  5. 
He  had  regained  his  composure,  but  his  unusual  pallor 
and  sternness  betrayed  him  to  the  observant  eyes  of 
Nurse  Clifford.  Throughout  this  curious  drama  she  had 


DOWNWARD  159 

eat  knitting  calmly  in  a  corner  of  the  landing.  None  of 
the  three  participants  in  what  she  perceived  to  be  some- 
thing of  a  tragedy  had  observed  her,  but  there  was 
nothing  about  them  she  had  failed  to  notice. 

"Poor  little  Fits  has  burned  herself  at  last,"  her 
thoughts  ran.  "What  can  have  happened?  Young 
Walter  left  the  house  without  seeing  his  mother  and 
Anthony  went  without  visiting  a  single  patient.  What 
on  earth  has  Fitz  done  to  them  both?  .  .  .  She  might 
have  left  Helen's  boy  alone.  I  suppose  she  can't  help 
her  nature — it's  her  nature  to  want  to  make  men  burn. 
Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  built  differently.  .  .  .  Poor  Fitz! 
Poor  Helen!  .  .  .  What  &  mercy  none  of  the  others 
Bawl" 

END  OF  PABT  IL 


PART  in 
I 

LOOKING  back  in  after  years  to  this,  the  blackest  time 
of  her  life,  Dolly's  principal  recollection  was  the  despair 
that  ensued  on  the  postman's  visits.  Eight  times  a  day 
her  soul  was  racked  anew,  as  post  followed  post  and  no 
word  came  to  her  from  Theo.  Dolly  had  not  seen  him 
since  the  day  she  had  fled  from  him  up  the  stairs,  which 
she  no\y  realized  had  been  a  serious  mistake,  since  it 
must  in  some  way  have  wounded  hfm,  A  thousand  times 
she  had  regretted  it  On  the  following  day  Lady  Walter 
had  left  the  nursing  home  with  her  niece  Helen,  and 
Dolly  knew  that  Theo  had  been  at  Haslemere  with  them 
all  through  the  long  vacation,  and  had  still  not  returned 
to  town. 

Apparently  he  had  put  her  right  out  of  his  life.  In 
vain  she  told  herself  that  it  was  best  so,  that  it  was  what 
she  had  intended  and  resolved.  But  that  resolution  had 
been  made  before  the  fatal  evening  which  had  altered 
everything.  She  had  never  dreamed  it  would  have 
ended  as  it  did,  and  she  told  herself  bitterly,  miserably, 
that  Theo  now  belonged  more  to  her  than  to  Helen. 

Yet  he  made  no  sign.  Days  ran  into  weeks  and  weeks 
to  months,  but  long  before  this  her  deep  humiliation  at 
Theo's  silence  had  given  place  to  more  poignant  feel- 
ings. She  lay  awake  at  night  occupied  with  horrible 
calculations.  An  unspeakable  dread  was  in  her  mind, 
a  dread  that  she  dared  not  clothe  in  words  until  forced 
to  by  the  passing  of  the  ruthless  weeks. 

At  the  end  of  August  she  was  free  to  take  her  holiday. 
A  prey  to  terrible  fears,  she  managed  to  get  through  the 
161 


162  DOWNWARD 

fortnight  with  her  friends  at  Hampstead,  but  instead  of 
going  afterwards  to  Berlin,  she  sought  retirement  for 
the  rest  of  the  time  in  a  small  farm-house  in  Hampshire. 
Here,  among  the  blessed  seclusion  of  indifferent  stran- 
gers, she  forced  herself  to  face  the  truth — that  a  heavy 
price  was  to  be  exacted  for  that  brief  hour  of  passion — 
a  price  to  be  paid  by  her  alone. 

As  yet  she  could  feel  only  fear.  Terror  of  the  most 
painful  kind  held  her  in  a  relentless  grip. 

In  these  circumstances  she  had  paid  small  heed 
to  the  revelation  of  her  father's  identity,  which  other- 
wise would  have  been  a  matter  of  great  moment.  In  the 
first  excitement  of  her  discovery  she  had  rushed  to 
Dacre  Hamilton's  office,  but  the  lawyer  had  been  out  of 
town.  Knowing  how  strict  was  his  code  of  professional 
honour,  Dolly  had  little  hope  of  getting  any  information 
from  him,  even  though  Anthony  Haven  himself  had 
admitted  the  facts,  but  when  they  met  a  week  later, 
Hamilton  had  received  instructions  from  his  client,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  impede  their  conversation. 

Anthony  Raven  had  told  the  whole  story,  including 
his  version  of  the  events  of  that  Wednesday  night,  when 
by  a  curious  coincidence  he  too  had  visited  a  friend  at 
the  latter 's  rooms  in  the  Temple.  Dolly  was  unaware 
that  Hamilton  knew  all.  In  her  version  of  the  strange 
interview  with  her  father,  she  had  vouchsafed  no  in- 
formation as  to  the  cause  of  their  "quarrel"  as  she 
chose  to  term  it.  Hamilton  never  told  her  how  earnestly 
he  had  pleaded  for  her.  Eaven,  in  his  rage  at  Dolly's 
defiance  of  him,  had  intended  to  repudiate  entirely  any 
further  responsibility  for  her.  The  lawyer's  advice  had 
prevailed,  however,  and  the  ultimatum  which  eventually 
reached  the  girl  was  merely  to  the  effect  that  her  allow- 
ance would  continue  and  nothing  should  be  said  about 
her  behaviour,  on  condition  that  she  kept  her  own  coun- 
sel and  left  Meredith  House  as  soon  as  possible — giving 
notice  at  once. 

Dolly  rather  enjoyed  the  situation. 

"Eeally,  Mr.  Hamilton,  your  child-like  innocence  is 


DOWNWARD  163 

charmingly  assumed,"  she  said;  "it's  all  so  delightfully 
transparent  1  Does  Anthony  really  think  he  can  buy  me 
for  a  wretched  ten  pounds  a  quarter?  How  dare  he 
presume  to  make  conditions!  Can't  I  damage  him  now 
ever  so  much  more  than  he  can  damage  me?" 

"No,  you  cannot.  Will  you  never  realize,  Dolly,  that 
there  is  one  law  for  men  and  another  for  women,  espe- 
cially when  the  man  is  rich  and  the  woman  poor.  What 
harm  can  you  do  a  man  of  his  standing?  Even  if  you 
were  believed,  it  would  only  be  one  more  story  circulat- 
ing about  him — it's  no  news  to  you  how  many  there  are 
already.  It  isn't  as  if  he  were  a  politician,  whom  a 
breath  of  scandal  could  ruin.  But,  on  your  side,  you 
know  well  that  a  word  to  Sister  Meredith  would  cause 
your  dismissal;  she  can't  afford  to  go  against  her 
patrons.  'Dismissed  for  rudeness  to  a  doctor' — it  would 
take  some  living  down,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Dolly,  sombrely,  "and  a  woman 
working  for  her  living  can't  afford  to  take  any  risks. 
He  knows  that.  Well,  he  needn't  fear;  fortunately  for 
him  I'm  mother's  child  as  well  as  his.  You  can  tell  him 
Valerie  Fitzgerald's  daughter  isn't  a  blackmailer,  and 
that  I  refuse  to  leave  Meredith  House  till  it  suits  me. 
Moreover,  of  course,  I  decline  the  allowance  with  many 
thanks  I" 

The  lawyer  sighed.  He  got  very  tired  of  trying  to 
prevail  against  the  whims  and  tempers  of  men  and 
women.  Nothing,  however,  surprised  or  shocked  him. 
Patiently  he  began  to  expostulate. 

"You've  been  longing  to  leave  the  nursing  home  for 
months.  Now  that  it's  expedient  to  do  so,  you  refuse  to 
go.  Is  that  sensible  or  practical?" 

"It's  not  expedient.  I've  just  earned  Sister's  lively 
gratitude  by  agreeing  to  postpone  my  holiday  because 
we're  so  short-handed.  She's  been  decent  to  me  on  the 
whole,  and  I'm  not  going  back  on  her.  Besides,  by  leav- 
ing now,  I  should  either  get  no  holiday  or  no  pay  for  as 
much  holiday  as  I  chose  to  take.  And  if  I  let  Sister  pay 
me  during  my  absence,  I  shall  have  to  work  for  her  a 


164  DOWNWARD 

reasonable  time  on  my  return,  naturally.  Who's  the 
sensible  and  practical  one  now  ? ' ' 

Hamilton  smiled.  "Well,  I  suppose  you'll  keep  out 
of  Dr.  Raven's  way,  and  try  to  get  the  other  men's 
patients.  But  about  the  allowance — why  be  so  fool- 
hardy?" 

"No,  no,  it's  unthinkable ;  I  couldn't  touch  his  money. 
It's  only  right  he  should  have  provided  for  and  edu- 
cated me,  and  had  me  taught  a  profession — I  think  a 
man  should  be  liable  for  all  his  children.  I  don't  feel 
under  any  obligation  for  what  he  has  done.  But  now 
I'm  independent — thank  heaven  for  itl — I'll  take 
nothing  more  from  him." 

"You  11  miss  the  forty  pounds,  child." 

"Of  course  I  shall,  dreadfully,  but  I'd  miss  my  self- 
respect  more.  I'll  not  touch  Anthony  Raven's  money! 
I'll  not  sell  the  privilege  of  despising  a  bad  father  for 
forty  pieces  of  gold  per  annum." 

* '  You  're  making  a  mistake, ' '  said  the  lawyer.  ' '  That 
tendency  to  melodrama  will  prove  costly,  my  child.  I've 
often  warned  you  against  it. ' '  Inwardly,  whilst  he  scru- 
tinized her  face,  he  wondered  what  really  were  her 
relations  with  Theo. 

"It's  strange  you  never  saw  the  likeness  before,"  he 
said,  musingly. 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  thinking  ever  since," 
Dolly  agreed;  "it's  so  marked,  yet  no  one  noticed  it,  not 
even  Nurse  Dickenson,  who  has  an  extraordinary  fac- 
ulty for  scenting  scandal." 

With  her  father,  Hamilton  had  indulged  in  the  rare 
luxury  of  an  "I  told  you  so ! "  For  years  he  had  urged 
Raven  to  allow  his  daughter  to  follow  her  natural  bent, 
but  Dolly's  father  had  the  delusion  of  the  thoroughly 
non-moral  man  that  to  keep  women  virtuous  they  must 
be  strictly  guarded  from  all  temptations.  He  guessed 
that  his  daughter  had  probably  inherited  a  good  deal  of 
his  temperament,  and  though  he  hated  the  sight  and  the 
thought  of  her,  he  was  afraid  to  leave  her  unprotected. 
All  his  arrangements  had  been  made  under  the  influence 


DOWNWARD  165 

of  this  idea,  and  for  the  same  reason  he  had  set  his  face 
from  the  first  against  her  going  on  the  stage.  But  Dacre 
Hamilton  had  never  ceased  to  maintain  that  the  girl 
would  be  far  safer  in  a  life  that  suited  her — far  more 
likely  to  throw  over  the  traces  if  forced  into  an  uncon- 
genial sphere.  Now  it  seemed  to  be  turning  out  as  he 
had  prophesied,  though  to  what  extent  he  did  not  yet 
know.  He  fancied  there  was  a  grim  secret  in  Dolly's 
eyes,  and  he  was  fearful  for  her  future. 

"Don't  make  any  change  without  consulting  me,"  he 
said  at  parting,  ' '  and,  remember,  Dolly,  I  'm  always  here 
if  you  want  me.  Come  to  me  if  you're  in — in  any  diffi- 
culty, no  matter  what  it  is;  or  if  you  miss  the  forty 
pounds  too  much." 

"Thank  you,  Dacre,"  she  said,  with  a  grateful  glance 
from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"That's  right — call  me  Dacre;  we've  been  friends  so 
long." 

"And  what  a  friend  you've  been  to  me!"  Dolly 
stood  on  tip-toe  and  simply,  charmingly,  she  kissed  him 
on  the  cheek. 

The  lawyer  remained  standing  by  his  desk  for  a  long 
time  after  she  had  gone,  and  then  for  some  moments  he 
stared  at  his  greying  hair  in  the  glass. 

"If  that  young  brute  has  done  her  any  harm!"  he 
muttered,  savagely. 


II 

THE  weeks  were  passing.  With  appalling,  cruel  swift- 
ness they  fled,  one  after  another.  The  hunted  look 
deepened  in  Dolly's  eyes  and  black  shadows  were 
painted  beneath  them. 

A  certain  measure  of  peace  had  come  to  her,  however. 
Her  mind  had  regained  its  balance ;  she  told  herself  that 
it  would  be  all  right  yet.  Theo  would  not  let  her  suffer 
— there  would  be  no  need  for  fear.  His  silence  had  been 
hard  to  bear,  but  she  would  not  let  herself  believe  he 
had  ceased  to  care  for  her.  It  was  so  vital  that  he  should 
still  care;  he  must  care.  He  had  adored  her,  he  had 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment,  he  had  said  she  held  all 
the  heavens  and  the  earth  for  him,  he  had  made  her  his 
own.  Surely  such  a  passion  could  not  die  so  soon ! 

She  would  go  to  him  and  tell  him  what  had  befallen. 
It  would  be  painful  telling,  but  sweet  withal.  He  would 
take  her  in  his  arms  with  kisses  and  gentle  words ;  hence- 
forth their  lives  would  run  together  .  .  .  and  in  the 
spring  a  strange,  beautiful  joy  would  come  to  them.  .  .  . 

Dolly  would  sometimes  grow  rosy  with  delight  in  the 
darkness,  as  she  lay  sleepless,  picturing  that  spring-tide 
and  its  gift  to  her.  Only  sometimes,  awakening  sud- 
denly in  the  cold  dawn,  when  vitality  is  at  its  lowest, 
that  chill  fear  would  grip  her  heart  again,  and  she 
would  bury  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  moan,  "Oh,  God! 
not  that— oh,  God!" 

Still  she  delayed  communicating  with  Theo  in  the 
hope  that  the  long  expected  letter  would  come  and  make 
all  easy  for  her.  It  was  so  difficult  to  break  through  the 
barrier  of  that  silence,  and  with  such  news !  She  deter- 
mined to  wait  a  little  longer,  just  a  little  longer.  It  was 


DOWNWARD  167 

dangerous,  she  realized.  Sister  Meredith  had  been  an- 
noyed with  her  for  sending  in  her  resignation  so  soon 
after  a  holiday,  and  more  than  once  she  caught  the 
Sister's  shrewd  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  a  peculiar  way  that 
made  her  catch  her  breath,  with  a  spasm  of  that  hideous 
fear.  Delay  was  undoubtedly  dangerous  .  .  .  but  the 
letter  might  come  to-morrow  ...  or  the  day  after.  She 
would  wait. 


The  letter  did  not  come,  but  instead  came  through 
Sister  Meredith  the  news  of  Lady  Walter's  death.  For 
Dolly  this  was  an  evil  stroke  of  fate;  she  felt  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  write  to  Theo  now — perhaps  for 
some  weeks  to  come.  She  longed  to  comfort  him,  her 
heart  ached  for  him  in  this  grief ;  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  he  was  inevitably  turning  to  Helen  for  consola- 
tion, that  the  loss  was  bringing  them  still  closer  together. 

Of  Helen  she  scarcely  thought — it  was  too  painful. 
She  told  herself  again  and  again  that  she  could  not 
afford  to  consider  her  friend — and  indeed  it  was  too  late 
now. 

Meanwhile  they  flew,  they  flew — those  terrible  weeks ! 
And  though  each  was  so  swift,  their  total  seemed  in- 
numerable years.  By  Dolly's  calendar — scanned  several 
times  a  day  and  sometimes  for  hours  together  when  off 
duty,  marked  and  remarked  with  countless  calculations 
and  blotted  with  despairing  tears — only  ten  weeks  had 
run  when  Lady  Walter  died,  but  Dolly  felt  that  years 
must  have  passed,  and  sometimes  she  wondered  as  she 
looked  in  the  glass  that  her  hair  was  still  bright  and 
golden. 

One  night,  a  fortnight  after  Lady  Walter's  death,  that 
strange,  sickening  fear  stood  by  Dolly's  bed  and  would 
not  be  denied.  All  the  thoughts  that  she  had  refused  to 
entertain  rushed  into  her  brain.  All  the  grim  imagin- 
ings she  had  resolutely  tried  to  banish  made  ghastly 
pictures  before  her. 

She  was  lying  on  her  back,  her  eyes  wide  and  full  of 


168  DOWNWARD 

horror,  staring  into  the  darkness,  when  the  door  opened 
very  gently  and  Nurse  Clifford  stole  into  the  room, 
carrying  a  candle. 

Never  beautiful,  the  senior  nurse  was  now  a  most 
unlovely  object  in  a  pink  flannel  nightdress,  surmounted 
by  a  red  woollen  dressing-gown.  Her  scanty  hair,  grey- 
ing at  the  sides,  was  screwed  into  a  tight  knot  at  the 
top  of  her  head.  One  missed  in  her  face  the  freshening 
effeat  of  the  white  collar  and  cap-strings.  She  looked 
less  dignified,  in  fact  not  dignified  at  all,  but  her  kind 
eyes  were  full  of  love  and  pity,  and  to  Dolly  in  her  deso- 
lation the  middle-aged  woman  seemed  an  angel  of  light. 

She  knelt  down  by  the  bed  and  put  a  protecting  arm 
across  the  unhappy  girl.  Without  a  word,  Dolly  turned 
her  face  to  that  motherly  breast  and  eased  her  strained, 
anguished  eyes  in  a  gush  of  tears. 

"Oh,  Cliff,  Cliff!— if  you  only  knew!"  she  moaned, 
"if  you  only  knew!  Oh,  Cliff,  I'm  so  afraid!" 

The  other  woman  stroked  her  hair  gently,  and  held 
the  shuddering  figure  tight  in  her  arms.  At  last,  when 
Dolly  was  quiet,  she  said: 

"I  do  know,  Fitz,  dear;  I  know  all  about  it." 

"Oh!  you  don't  mean  to  say  already " 

"No,  no,  dear — not  a  bit.  Don't  worry,  nobody  could 
tell  yet.  But  it's  your  face  and  your  changed  manner. 
I've  had  a  lot  of  experience,  you  know,  and  somehow  I 
guessed.  But  you  don't  mind  me?" 

"No,  not  you,  Cliff — you're  so  kind,  only  .  .  .  oh, 
what  shaU  I  do?  God,  what  shall  I  do?"  Her  sobs 
broke  out  afresh,  her  convulsed  face  was  painful  to  see. 
The  other  woman  blew  out  the  candle. 

"We  can  talk  better  in  the  dark.  Now,  Fitz,  dearie, 
you're  not  to  cry,  it's  so  bad  for  you.  Let's  think  what's 
to  be  done.  There's  no  need  to  be  upset;  I'm  sure  it's 
all  going  to  come  right.  Have  you  told  him  yet?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Well,  I  would  if  I  were  you,  at  once.  How  long 
is  it?" 

"Twelve  weeks." 


DOWNWARD  169 

"And  your  time  here  isn't  up  for  nearly  another  fort- 
night. You  must  be  careful  till  then,  my  dear.  You 
know  what  a  genius  Dicky  has  got  for  a  scandal,  and 
that  little  brute  Brooks,  too !  You  must  try  and  be  your 
old  self;  make  an  effort,  just  for  the  two  weeks,  to  be 
cheery  and  light-hearted — anything  to  keep  that  scared 
look  out  of  your  eyes.  And  don't  let  yourself  creep 
about  and  walk  sort  of  gingerly.  It  would  be  nasty  if 
they  got  hold  of  it  just  before  you  went." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Dolly.  "I  didn't  think  I  was  giving 
myself  away,  but  Brooks  is  painfully  sharp,  and  Dicky 
always  thinks  the  worst  of  everybody." 

"And  tell  him,  child — write  and  tell  him  at  once. 
It's  not  fair  to  yourself  or  him — or  any  one — to  keep 
silence  any  longer.  You'll  see,  it  will  all  come  right. 
He'll  get  a  license  at  once,  and  when  you  leave  you  can 
be  married  without  more  delay.  You  ought  not  to  put 
it  off  a  moment  longer  ...  for  the  child's  sake. 
Fitz — "  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — "do  you  know, 
Fitz  .  .  .  I  envy  you.  .  .  .  I  should  have  liked  a  child !" 

The  two  women  clung  together  in  silence.  "Oh,  if 
only  you  are  right!"  sighed  Dolly,  "but  I'm  such  a 
coward,  I  simply  can't  bear  to  think  of  what's  coming, 
if  he  ...  And  then  there's  some  one  else,  too.  ...  I 
can't  tell  you." 

"I  know — poor  Helen!" 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  Dolly  lay  still  and  speech- 
less in  the  darkness.  Nurse  Clifford  could  feel  her  body 
trembling.  Then  at  last  her  voice  came  —  hoarse, 
strangled : 

"Who  told  you?" 

"I  guessed,  my  dear — don't  be  frightened;  no  one  else 
has.  But  I  was  on  the  landing  that  day  when  Dr.  Raven 
talked  to  you  in  No.  5  and  you  were  so  upset,  and  then 
the  young  man  arrived  and  you  rushed  away  from  him. 
On  the  whole,  it  wasn't  difficult  to  put  two  and  two 
together;  but  I  couldn't  understand  what  Anthony  had 
to  do  with  it,  unless  he 's  in  love  with  you  too  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  he  hates  me!" 


170  DOWNWARD 

After  a  pause,  finding  no  other  explanation  came, 
Nurse  Clifford  asked:  "You  do  want  to  marry  him,  I 
suppose?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Fitz!  You  can't  mean  to  say  your  love  has  died 
already!" 

"No,  I  feel  the  same;  but  love  is  such  a  strange  thing 
— nobody  really  understands  it.  That's  why  every  one 
talks  and  reads  and  writes  so  much  about  it.  It's  quite 
incomprehensible,  though,  and  it's  nothing  to  do  with 
marriage." 

"That  sounds  downright  wickedness  to  me." 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  wicked.  I  only  mean  that  it's 
difficult  to  imagine  Theo  a  husband — he's  not  like  that, 
somehow." 

"And  you  never  thought  of  marrying  him  at  all?" 

"No,  I  never  thought  of  anything.  I  never  meant  to 
take  him  from  Helen.  But  he  was  mine  and  I  was  his, 
and  though  we  tried  to  keep  apart  something  dragged  us 
together.  We  couldn't  help  it;  it  just  happened.  And 
then  I  went  to  his  rooms,  and  I  suppose  we  lost  our 
heads.  But  I  never  meant  it  to  come  to  that,  nor  did  he. 
We  only  wanted  to  snatch  a  little  innocent  joy  together. 
It  was  just  ...  the  Life-Force !  And  now  I  feel  so  lost 
and  lonely  and  afraid.  Do  you  really  think  it  will  be 
all  right,  Cliff?" 

Again  Nurse  Clifford  repeated  the  comforting  assur- 
ance of  which  she  was  in  reality  by  no  means  so  con- 
fident. Day  was  dawning  when  she  went  to  her  own 
room,  leaving  Dolly  soothed  and  almost  asleep. 

Next  morning  proved  the  good  woman's  secret  fears 
to  be  well  grounded.  The  first  post  brought  her  a  letter 
from  Helen,  announcing  her  marriage  to  Theo  in  a  few 
weeks'  time. 

"Now  we're  in  for  it!"  she  thought.  "Oh,  poor, 
poor  Helen!  Oh,  why  will  the  Life-Force  make  these 
fearful  muddles  for  us?" 


m 

"My  dear  boy  is  so  sad  and  moody,"  Helen  wrote, 
"that  I  really  think  it  is  best  for  him  that  onr  marriage 
should  take  place  at  once,  though  it  is  hard  there  should 
be  such  a  shadow  upon  onr  wedding,  as  we  have  been 
waiting  so  long.  Bnt  Theo  is  miserable  here,  now  that 
the  dear  mother  has  gone ;  the  place  is  too  full  of  memo- 
ries of  his  childhood.  And  he  seems  to  have  taken  a 
dislike  to  his  rooms  in  town,  and  won't  go  np  even  for  a 
day,  although  I  hare  urged  him  to,  thinking  it  might 
cheer  him.  He  needs  me  so  now  that  I  cannot  leave  him, 
and  our  marriage  seems  to  be  the  only  solution.  ATI  our 
relatives  wish  it,  too,  so  we  hare  decided  not  to  wait  till 
Theo  is  called  to  the  Bar,  as  we  originally  intended. 
We  shall  be  married  very  quietly  in  town,  and  go 
straight  off  to  Cairo,  probably  staying  the  winter  there.*' 

Nurse  Clifford  thrust  the  letter  into  her  pocket,  pray- 
ing that  Hefen  might  not  announce  the  fact  of  her 
approaching  wedding  to  Sister  Meredith,  or  any  one 
who  might  inform  Dolly.  Theo's  sadness  and  unrest 
seemed  to  her  a  good  omen  for  Dolly,  though  the  thought 
of  Helen  being  sacrificed  was  too  painful  to  contemplate. 
But  Mary  Clifford  knew  that  Helen  was  a  woman  of 
rarely  noble  character;  she  felt  sure  that,  once  ac- 
quainted with  the  facts,  Helen  would  not  hesitate  to 
renounce  her  happiness  to  the  woman  who  had  the 
greater  claim. 

After  breakfast  she  took  Dolly  aside  and  again  urged 
her  to  write  without  delay  to  Theo.  It  was  not  till  two 
days  later,  however,  that  the  letter  was  posted.  Dolly 
spent  the  whole  of  her  half-day  composing  it,  and  tore 
up  a  dozen  attempts.  She  had  meant  to  write  lovingly, 
171 


172  DOWNWARD 

to  reveal  the  great  secret  in  tender,  carefully  chosen 
words,  but  she  still  smarted  under  the  humiliation  of 
Theo's  cruel  silence,  and  the  letter  that  finally  went  was 
cold  and  crude. 

It  was  posted  on  a  Thursday  afternoon.  Dolly  ex- 
pected an  answer  by  the  last  post  on  Friday  night,  or 
perhaps  a  wire  earlier  in  the  day.  She  felt  sure  Theo 
would  rush  to  her  side,  and  her  spirits  lightened  enor- 
mously, once  the  letter  had  gone.  She  told  herself  she 
had  been  foolish  to  give  way  to  fear  and  to  make  herself 
ill  with  worry.  Theo  loved  her !  Theo  would  not  let  her 
suffer! 

At  that  time  she  was  nursing  an  elderly  clergyman 
recovering  from  an  operation  and  a  young  married 
woman,  well  known  in  Society,  who  had  developed 
"nerves,"  after  a  not  very  creditable  appearance  as 
intervener  in  a  recent  divorce  case.  Dolly  considered 
this  Mrs.  Lanyon  the  most  exasperating  patient  she  had 
ever  had.  Her  bell  seemed  to  ring  ceaselessly,  her  wants 
to  be  uneriding.  On  this  particular  Friday  afternoon 
she  nearly  drove  her  nurse  mad.  Poor  Dolly  was  look- 
ing wretchedly  ill;  the  anxiety  and  suspense,  coupled 
with  the  strain  on  her  condition,  had  told  on  her  fine 
constitution;  she  was  now  far  more  "nervy"  than  her 
patient. 

But  the  pretty  mondaine,  comfortable  in  bed  with 
nothing  to  do,  knew  no  mercy.  First  she  rang  for  her 
milk — why  did  not  Nurse  bring  it  punctually?  .  .  . 
Then,  if  her  clock  was  fast,  would  Nurse  be  so  good  as 
to  put  it  right?  She  had  had  an  excellent  lunch  barely 
two  hours  ago,  but  to  a  malade  imaginaire  having  a  rest- 
cure,  the  food  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  and  even  the 
arrival  of  the  prescribed  glasses  of  milk  between  meals 
makes  a  break  of  some  kind  in  the  monotonous  day. 

How  tiresome!  The  milk  was  too  hot — would  Nurse 
cool  it  ?  ...  Oh,  dear,  now  it  was  too  cold ;  Nurse  must 
really  heat  it  up  again;  how  careless  of  her!  And  the 
poor  head  was  aching  so,  Nurse  must  bathe  it  with  Eau- 
de-Cologne  ,  .  .  perhaps  it  might  help  to  send  away 


DOWNWARD  173 

the  pain  if  Nurse  were  to  brush  her  hair  with  the  electrio 
brush! 

And  so  on  and  so  on — an  endless  succession  of  petty 
desires  and  petty  complaints,  till  Dolly's  head  ached  far 
worse  than  her  patient's,  and  her  limbs  ached,  too,  from 
the  unnecessary  running  to  and  fro.  It  was  a  relief  to 
think  that  she  had  only  eight  days  more  at  Meredith 
House,  for  she  was  getting  beyond  the  hard  work.  The 
early  rising  and  the  innumerable  stairs  tried  her  espe- 
cially, and  some  days  she  felt  she  could  hardly  keep 
going  till  bed-time. 

All  through  Mrs.  Lanyon's  fretful  monologue  Dolly's 
thoughts  were  of  the  wire  she  was  expecting — her  hear- 
ing strained  to  catch  the  double  knock  at  the  front  door. 
As  the  afternoon  passed  she  began  to  concentrate  her 
thoughts  on  the  letter  she  felt  sure  would  come  by  the 
evening  post.  After  all,  she  told  herself,  it  was  far  more 
likely  that  Theo  would  write  announcing  his  coming. 
The  letter  would  reach  her  to-night,  surely,  and  to- 
morrow he  would  come  to  her  and  all  would  be  welL 

But  neither  wire  nor  letter  came. 

As  soon  as  she  was  awake  the  next  morning  Dolly 
began  to  pray  passionately  that  the  letter  might  reach 
her  by  the  first  post.  Whilst  dressing,  she  wondered 
how  many  women  in  London  that  morning  were  praying 
and  longing  for  a  word  from  faithless  and  forgetful  men 
— how  many  of  them  for  the  same  cause  as  herself? 

It  was  so  easy  to  write  a  letter !  It  was  such  torture  to 
wait  for  one  that  did  not  come.  She  recalled  with  regret 
the  many  letters  that  she  had  left  unanswered  from  men 
who  had  loved  her.  Freddy  Smith,  for  instance,  was 
wont  to  heap  passionate  epistles  on  her,  mainly  com- 
posed of  abuse  because  she  did  not  return  his  love.  She 
had  always  regarded  this  persistent  wooer  with  ridicule, 
and  only  one  in  ten  or  so  of  his  letters  had  she  troubled 
to  answer.  To-day,  for  the  first  time,  she  realized  that 
the  little  man  must  have  suffered  very  keenly  on  her  ac- 
count. Her  own  trouble  made  her  feel  sorry  for  all  the 
pain  in  the  world. 


174  DOWNWARD 

But  the  letter  did  not  come  by  the  eight  o'clock  post. 
Dolly  could  hardly  believe  it.  At  breakfast  she  sat 
silent,  not  hearing  when  spoken  to,  eating  nothing,  but 
drinking  feverishly  cup  after  cup  of  weak  and  ever 
weaker  tea.  Nurse  Clifford  filled  her  cup  without  com- 
ment, merely  saying  at  the  last,  "I'm  sorry  it's  so  weak, 
Pitzj  the  Gold-Stick  is  so  stingy." 

So  the  long,  wretched  day  dragged  itself  out.  Post 
after  post  passed;  a  score  of  letters  arrived  for  the 
patients,  for  Sister,  for  the  nurses,  for  the  servants — but 
none  for  Dolly  from  Theo.  Dolly  felt  that  life  could 
hold  no  bitterer  humiliation — she  who  had  been  so  often 
wooed,  so  deeply  desired  —  she  to  wait,  faint  with 
anxiety,  for  a  man's  word! 

Fortunately  the  exacting  Mrs.  Lanyon  had  a  succes- 
sion of  visitors  that  afternoon  and  left  Dolly  in  peace. 
Her  other  patient,  the  elderly  clergyman,  had  noted 
some  time  ago  that  Nurse  Fitzgerald  had  some  trouble 
on  her  mind,  and  from  long  and  painful  experience  in 
a  country  district  he  could  shrewdly  surmise  the  possible 
nature  of  that  trouble.  He  well  knew  that  set-apart 
look  of  deep  and  grievous  preoccupation  peculiar  to 
women,  and  what  it  generally  portended.  He  was  a 
kindly  soul,  and  for  days  he  had  been  casting  about  for 
suitable  words  with  which  to  gain  her  confidence  and 
offer  help  and  consolation.  Such  hints  as  he  had  thrown 
out,  however,  had  been  received  with  blank,  almost 
stupid,  non-comprehension.  He  perceived  that  the  girl 
was  so  deeply  engrossed  in  her  own  thoughts  that  she 
did  not  hear  half  of  what  was  said  to  her.  Having 
ascertained,  by  cleverly  casual  questioning  of  Sister 
Meredith,  that  Nurse  Fitzgerald  had  private  means,  his 
anxiety  on  her  behalf  was  somewhat  relieved.  Dolly 
never  knew  how  much  kindly  consideration  she  owed 
him,  or  how  many  times  he  refrained  from  ringing  his 
bell,  because  it  would  mean  more  stairs  for  her  to  climb. 

When  the  last  post  was  in,  and  Dolly  realized  that  she 
would  have  to  wait  two  endless  nights  and  a  day  before 
the  next  delivery  on  Monday  morning,  she  broke  down 


DOWNWARD  175 

utterly.  Nurse  Clifford,  who  had  hovered  around  her 
all  day,  took  the  hysterical  girl  up  to  her  little  attic 
below  the  roof.  The  other  nurses,  whispering  in  a  group 
on  the  landing,  agreed  that  "something  peculiar  was  up 
with  Fitz." 

Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday  passed,  but 
no  letter  came.  Thirty-two  posts  drew  out  the  agony  to 
its  uttermost  length.  Neither  self-control  nor  reticence 
had  ever  been  strong  points  with  poor  Dolly.  In  spite 
of  Clifford's  warnings,  she  gave  herself  away  on  every 
hand;  she  found  it  impossible  to  conceal  her  miserable 
anxiety.  By  this  time  everybody  in  the  house,  even  the 
page-boy,  knew  that  Nurse  Fitzgerald  was  expecting  a 
letter  that  did  not  come — a  very  important  letter. 

All  the  permanent  inmates  of  the  house  had  also 
noted  that  Nurse  Fitzgerald,  formerly  so  bright  and 
laughing  and  light-hearted,  now  scarcely  ever  spoke, 
and  was  always  far  away  in  her  thoughts,  which  were 
obviously  of  an  unpleasant  nature. 

Moreover,  her  personal  appearance  had  greatly 
changed;  she  had  been  so  brilliant,  so  pretty,  now  she 
was  strangely  dimmed  and  almost  plain.  She  cried  very 
often,  her  eyes  were  always  red-rimmed  and  scored 
below  with  dark  shadows,  sometimes  wild  and  sometimes 
stony — all  joy  had  gone  out  of  them ;  often  it  was  pain- 
ful to  meet  their  gaze,  so  full  were  they  of  anguish. 

And  her  mouth,  her  beautiful,  laughing  mouth, 
curved  for  joy,  was  now  pinched  and  set,  drawn  down  at 
the  corners.  Her  soft,  rounded  cheeks  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  fallen  in.  There  were  large  hollows  on  either 
side,  and  this  alone  marred  her  good  looks  considerably. 

"Your  figure's  absolutely  all  right,"  Nurse  Clifford 
assured  her ;  ' '  you  needn  't  worry  about  that  for  another 
six  weeks,  but  you  are  evidently  one  of  those  women 
who  show  it  in  their  face  from  the  first ;  my  sisters  were 
both  like  that.  But  only  quite  experienced  people 
understand,  fortunately. ' ' 

Sister  Meredith  cast  many  a  scrutinizing  glance  at 
Dolly  in  those  days,  and  Brooks  and  Dickenson  also 


176  DOWNWARD 

stared  furtively  at  her.  They  had  begun  to  whisper 
about  her  together  by  the  time  Nurse  Clifford  had  per- 
suaded Dolly  not  to  rush  for  the  posts,  but  to  leave  the 
matter  to  her. 

Dolly  agreed.  On  Thursday  night  she  had  gone  to 
her  bedroom  and  was  waiting  there,  unable  to  undress 
until  the  suspense  of  the  last  post  should  be  over,  when 
Nurse  Clifford  rushed  in  with  a  letter. 

"At  last,  Fitz!  Haslemere  postmark — this  is  it 
surely,"  she  panted,  breathless  from  the  many  stairs. 

Dolly  was  trembling  all  over.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be 
falling  through  her  body.  With  mute,  quivering  lips, 
she  thrust  the  letter  back  to  the  other  woman,  who  tore 
it  open  in  fierce  haste.  "God  grant  it's  all  right!"  was 
Mary  Clifford's  unspoken  prayer. 

On  a  large,  thick  sheet  of  cream-coloured  paper, 
headed  with  a  crest  and  address  in  bold  black  letters, 
was  written  in  a  small,  delicate,  fastidious  hand: 

"I  cannot  believe  it.  It  is  impossible.  It  must  not 
&e.__T.W." 

The  last  words  were  heavily  scored  beneath. 

"'It  must  not  be'!"  echoed  Nurse  Clifford,  blankly. 
"My  God,  what  a  brute!" 

But  Dolly  had  fainted.  Falling  heavily  sideways  on 
the  bed,  she  found  a  few  minutes'  merciful  oblivion. 

When  Mary  Clifford  looked  back  in  after  years  on 
this  crisis  in  another's  life  that  made  so  deep  an  impres- 
sion on  her,  she  was  able  to  make  some  slight  allowance 
for  Theo. 

He  was  suffering  from  a  great  shock  and  a  great  loss, 
he  was  deeply  committed  to  another  woman,  and  after 
a  long  engagement  his  marriage  to  her  was  announced 
for  a  few  weeks  hence.  In  these  circumstances  the 
shock  of  Dolly's  news  had  paralysed  all  his  finer  feel- 
ings. His  infatuation  for  Dolly  had  suffered  from  what 
he  imagined  was  her  cruel  repulsion  of  him  on  that 
morning  when  he  had  come  to  her,  full  of  love  and  pas- 
sionate tenderness.  Since  then,  more  than  three  months 


DOWNWARD  177 

ago,  she  had  gone  completely  out  of  his  life,  and  much 
sorrow  had  come  to  him  in  the  interval.  Probably  he 
had  written  many  letters  in  answer  to  Dolly's  startling 
one  and  torn  them  up,  dissatisfied ;  at  last  sending  those 
cruel  few  lines  in  desperation,  because  the  answer  could 
not  be  delayed  any  longer.  Dolly's  letter  to  him,  more- 
over, had  been  blunt  and  cold.  How  was  he  to  make 
allowance  for  a  woman's  wounded  pride,  and  guess  that 
her  feelings  towards  him  were  of  love,  in  spite  of 
everything  ? 

In  after  years  Mary  Clifford  was  able  to  weigh  these 
slight  considerations  against  the  amazing  cruelty  of 
Theo's  letter,  but  at  the  time  she  could  find  no  excuses 
— no  explanation  for  his  conduct.  She  did  not  know 
which  she  pitied  most,  the  woman  he  had  thrown  over 
or  the  woman  he  was  about  to  make  his  wife. 


IV 

IT  was  fortunate  that  Dolly's  engagement  at  the  nurs- 
ing home  terminated  the  day  after  Theo's  letter  arrived. 
She  felt  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  go  on  working 
after  that. 

Every  one  bade  her  farewell  with  kindness  and  regret, 
though  not  with  quite  as  much  regret  as  they  would 
have  felt  for  the  former  gay,  brilliant  Nurse  Fitzgerald, 
who  had  kept  them  all  so  lively.  Sister  Meredith,  on 
paying  her  salary,  commented  on  the  fact  that  Dolly  had 
not  asked  her  for  a  reference.  Why  was  she  not  taking 
another  post?  Dolly's  reply  that  she  wanted  a  rest 
first,  she  felt  run  down,  etc.,  drew  a  keen  glance  from 
the  older  woman. 

"Look  here,  Fitzgerald,"  Sister  Meredith  said,  ab- 
ruptly, "have  you  been  making  a  fool  of  yourself?  .  .  . 
Now  don't  be  absurd,  child;  those  heroics  are  wasted  on 
me,  as  you  well  know  ...  7  don't  want  to  pry  into  your 
affairs,  but  I've  always  done  my  best  to  safeguard  all  of 
you — you  especially,  because  you've  no  parents,  and  I 
saw  you  were  the  kind  that  needed  it,  and  I  only  want 
to  say  now  that  if  you  should  be  in  any  trouble  ..." 

But  Nurse  Fitzgerald  had  walked  out  of  the  room. 
Sister  Meredith  drew  her  own  conclusions. 

"So  I'm  the  kind  that  needs  safeguarding,"  repeated 
Dolly  to  herself  in  her  attic  bedroom,  as  with  shaking 
hands  she  tied  the  strings  of  her  uniform  bonnet.  "I 
suppose  it's  true.  They  all  think  so.  Mother  was  al- 
ways saying  it  —  Dacre's  often  implied  it.  Anthony 
forced  me  to  be  a  nurse  instead  of  an  actress,  because  he 
imagined  it,  though  he'd  never  seen  me.  And  Sister 
Meredith  thinks  it  too.  .  .  .  But  in  spite  of  their  safe- 
178 


DOWNWARD  179 

guards,  here  I  am  all  the  same — fatten!  I  suppose 
they'd  call  me  a  fallen  woman.  Helen  said  that  one  had 
to  go  a  long  way  downward  before  that  could  happen. 
I  never  meant  to  ...  I  never  meant  to ! " 

She  went  slowly  downstairs — for  the  last  time  down 
those  stairs  which  she  had  often  tripped  up  so  gaily; 
where  she  had  sat  and  chatted  and  laughed  and  talked 
scandal  ages  and  ages  ago  when  she  had  been  a  light- 
hearted  girl ;  where  she  had  many  times  met  her  father, 
unknowingly — many  times  watched  for  Theo  in  the  days 
when  he  gave  her  only  scowls;  stairs  she  had  run  up 
after  so  many  merry  evenings  at  the  theatre,  stairs  she 
had  crept  noiselessly  up  that  fatal  night,  with  Theo's 
wild  kisses  on  her  lips  and  her  heart  madly  beating, 
stairs  she  had  climbed,  oh!  so  sorrowfully  and  wearily 
since.  Every  step  had  a  memory  for  Dolly. 

On  the  second  floor  she  paused  to  say  good-bye  to  the 
elderly  clergyman  whose  gentleness  had  touched  her. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Templeton,  I'm  leaving  now.  I  do 
hope  you'll  go  on  as  well  as  you're  doing — you've  really 
made  a  splendid  recovery.  And  I  must  thank  you  for 
being  such  an  angelic  patient.  I  wish  they  were  all  like 
you." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,  thank  you — it's  you  who've 
been  the  angelic  nurse.  I  shall  miss  you  greatly.  Er — 
er — if  ever  you're  in  any  trouble " 

' '  He  too ! "  thought  Dolly.  ' '  Oh,  Heavens !  is  it  writ- 
ten in  capital  letters  on  my  face?" 

Something  in  her  expression  checked  the  good  man's 
speech.  In  silence  he  handed  her  the  visiting-card  that 
he  had  got  out  ready  for  her.  Dolly  pressed  his  hand 
gratefully  and  left  the  room  without  another  word. 

Thus  she  passed  from  Meredith  House. 

Nurse  Clifford  had  changed  her  half-day  at  a  good 
deal  of  personal  inconvenience  so  that  she  could  accom- 
pany Dolly  that  afternoon.  She  knew  how  desolate  the 
girl  would  feel  driving  off  alone,  arriving  alone  at  the 
bed-sitting-room  she  had  taken  in  Bloomsbury,  sitting 
alone  as  the  dusk  gathered,  spending  the  evening  alone 


180  DOWNWARD 

with  her  dreadful  thoughts,  and  sobbing  her  heart  out 
alone  in  the  darkness  when  she  went  to  bed. 

Clifford's  forethought  was  most  exquisitely  tender 
and  kind.  She  made  Dolly  lie  on  the  bed  and  rest  while 
she  unpacked.  The  hideous  room  looked  less  appalling 
with  Dolly's  things  about.  Then  the  good  woman  went 
out  and  made  purchases.  Returning  with  flowers  and 
China  tea  and  dainty  cakes,  she  seemed  like  the  good 
Samaritan  in  a  Sunday-school  story.  Dolly  clung  to  her 
with  infinite  gratitude ;  never  had  she  been  so  mothered 
since  Valerie  died. 

"What  should  I  have  done  without  you,  Cliff?"  she 
said  as  she  took  the  cup  of  tea  from  her  friend's  hands. 

"There,  that's  something  like  tea!"  was  her  only  an- 
swer. "I  should  just  like  the  Gold-Stick  to  see  the 
colour  of  it! — only  to  see  it,  though — I'd  not  let  her 
taste  a  drop  of  it.  Think  of  all  the  vile  stuff  she's  pro- 
vided for  me — me,  a  tea-maniac,  a  tannin- worshipper ! 
Isn  't  it  good  ?  Isn  't  it  golden  ? ' ' 

"Heavenly!"  said  Dolly.  "Why  are  you  so  sweet  to 
me,  Cliff?  Why  do  you  do  all  this  for  me?  Why  don't 
you  despise  me?" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to,"  said  Clifford,  cheerfully,  "and 
I  suppose  I'm  a  wickedly  unorthodox  woman;  but  d'you 
know,  Fitz,  a  woman  who's  going  to  have  a  child  is 
beautiful — sacred — holy  to  me.  It  doesn't  seem  to  mat- 
ter much  whether  she's  married  or  unmarried.  For  the 
time  being  she's  a  holy  thing  in  my  eyes — the  temple  in 
which  Nature 's  mysterious  forces  are  working  so  wonder- 
fully, and  the  thought  that  the  woman  has  to  go  through 
so  much  to  bring  the  little  new  life  into  being — the  new 
life  dowered  with  an  immortal  soul,  it's  so  sublime,  so 
beyond  all  words — it  simply  makes  me  reverence  unut- 
terably any  woman  who's  doing  it.  I  couldn't  do  too 
much  for  you,  Fitz,  dear,  because  what  you're  doing  is 
so  great  a  thing." 

"But  any  bad  woman  can  do  it,"  said  Dolly,  "any 
weak,  drunken  creature  can  do  the  same,  and  bring 


DOWNWARD  181 

diseased,  wretched  little  embryo  criminals  into  the 
world." 

"True,  but  because  vile  people  degrade  a  great 
achievement  by  doing  it  with  vile  results,  it  doesn't 
make  the  thing  itself  less  noble  when  it's  greatly,  worth- 
ily done.  And  what  greater  thing  is  there  for  women 
to  do?" 

"That's  all  very  well.  I've  thought  things  like 
that  .  .  .  but,  oh!  Cliff,  it's  so  different  when  you've  got 
to  really  do  it,  and  not  talk  about  it.  Got  to!  Got  to!" 

The  momentary  brightness  faded  from  her  face  and 
the  look  of  miserable  preoccupation  overshadowed  it 
once  more. 

Clifford  interposed  hastily : 

"I  can  remember  a  talk  I  once  had  with  poor  old 
Jessop.  You  know  how  seldom  she  speaks,  but  that  day 
she  let  herself  go  for  once.  It  was  in  confidence,  but  I 
don't  think  she'd  mind  my  telling  you  if  she  knew  the 
circumstances.  All  her  life  she's  longed  to  be  a  mother, 
and — imagine  it — she  told  me  she  had  a  trunk  full  of 
things  at  her  sister's  house  which  she'd  been  collecting 
since  she  was  a  little  girl — for  those  dream  children. 
She's  saved  up  her  old  toys  and  scrap-books  and  dolls' 
clothes,  neatly  mended  and  washed,  and  all  sorts  of  odds 
and  ends  that  kiddies  like — coloured  pictures,  scraps  of 
dress  materials,  silver  paper,  cardboard  boxes  and  even 
a  bag  full  of  pieces  of  rag  for  little  cut  fingers  and 
wounded  knees." 

"Oh,  Cliff!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it  heartrending?  I  wept  when  she  told  it 
me,  for  she  knows  that  those  little  dream  children  will 
never  be  born  now — she's  turned  forty.  And  after  her 
next  birthday  she  means  to  distribute  the  contents  of  the 
box  among  her  sisters'  children." 

"It's  horribly  pathetic.  Can't  she  care  for  the 
nephews  and  nieces?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  said,  and  she  answered  that, 
though  she's  very  fond  of  them,  they  didn't  fill  her 
heart.  'It's  one's  own  child  one  wants,  Cliff,'  she  said, 


182  DOWNWARD 

'the  child  one  has  suffered  and  anguished  for.  It's  the 
only  thing  really  worth  having.  Those  who  have  it  pos- 
sess everything,  and  those  who  have  all  else,  lacking  it, 
have  nothing.'  I've  never  forgotten  her  words.  Poor  old 
Jessop  would  gladly  be  in  your  shoes — believe  me." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Dolly.  "It's  so  easy  to  talk — 
but  when  it  actually  comes  to  the  point  and  means 
ruin " 

"Jessop  would  probably  tell  you  there  are  worse 
things  in  life  than  the  ruin  of  one's  worldly  prospects. 
She  goes  too  far,  of  course,  but  without  doubt  it  is  the 
best  and  deepest  joy  for  a  woman.  It's  life,  my  dear — 
to  have  created,  to  have  given  life !  Oh,  Fitz,  have  cour- 
age— even  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  it'll  be  the 
making  of  you.  The  responsibility  will  make  a  real 
woman  of  you,  and  you  may  own  some  day  that  your 
child  is  the  one  thing  worth  having  lived  for." 

"Do  you  really  think  that,  Cliff?  Why  are  you  so 
sure?" 

"My  empty  arms  have  taught  me,  dear." 

"But  the  price — think  of  the  awful  price!" 

"Yes,  you've  got  to  pay  for  it,  of  course.  Nothing's 
worth  having  for  women  that  we  don't  have  to  pay 
pretty  heavily  for  somehow." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  a  woman  who  has  an  adoring 
husband  and  everything  money  can  buy,  and  eveiy  one 
praising  and  blessing  and  congratulating  her,"  returned 
Doily,  despondently,  "but  for  me — all  alone,  and  poor, 
and  despised,  and  deserted  ..."  she  began  to  weep 
and  Clifford  called  herself  a  tactless  idiot. 

"Shut  up,  Fitz!"  she  commanded,  sternly;  "now  stop 
that  I  simply  won't  allow  it.  Don't  be  a  fool!  You're 
not  going  to  be  alone  and  deserted.  You're  going  to 
have  a  husband,  and  the  blessed  baby's  going  to  have  a 
father,  and  ten  names,  and  a  coat  of  arms,  and  what  not 
all!  Now  just  listen  to  me:  you're  going  to  take  a  nap 
now,  and  I'll  go  out  to  get  some  theatre  tickets  for 
to-night — upper  boxes,  as  you  can't  stand  at  pit  doors 
DOW.  It's  my  treat,  and  when  I  come  back  you're  going 


DOWNWARD  183 

to  write  a  letter  to  that  young  man  at  my  dictation ;  that 
will  bring  him  up  to  town  in  double-quick  time  to- 
morrow, Saturday!  And  we'll  post  it  in  time  to  catch 
the  country  post  on  our  way  to  a  royal  dinner  in  Soho, 
to  which  I  command  you  to  come  as  my  guest.  Don't 
say  a  word — it's  done!" 


IT  was  not  till  Monday  that  Theo  came,  and  by  then 
Dolly  had  spent  two  days  alone  and  two  interminable, 
sleepless  nights.  Nurse  Clifford  had  a  dangerous  opera- 
tion case  on  Saturday  morning,  and  while  her  patient 
was  hovering  between  life  and  death,  nothing  would  in- 
duce her  to  go  off  duty  till  bed-time.  This  proved  unfor- 
tunate for  Dolly,  who  had  nobody  to  speak  to,  nothing  to 
read  and  no  duties  to  occupy  her.  The  English  Sunday 
found  her  thus  defenceless  before  its  horrors.  She  spent 
the  two  days  listening  for  a  letter,  a  wire,  a  hansom 
stopping  at  the  door,  bearing  her  cruel  lover.  When  she 
dressed  to  go  out  on  Monday  morning  she  looked  a 
wreck.  And  suddenly  she  met  Theo  face  to  face  on  the 
stairs. 

It  was  a  moment  of  painful  embarrassment  for  both. 
The  landlady,  eyeing  the  couple  with  the  utmost  sus- 
picion, remarked  truculently  that  she  would  oblige  with 
the  loan  of  her  second-floor  back  drawing-room,  and  to 
this  villainous  apartment  she  led  the  way. 

"Easy  to  see  something's  wrong  there,"  she  subse- 
quently confided  to  her  next-door  neighbour,  in  the  area. 
"And  her  pretendin'  to  be  a  nurse,  too!  I  never  can 
abide  them  uniforms,  even  when  they're  real;  but  when 
they're  false,  and  with  golden  hair  atop — oh,  my!  And 
the  young  gent  looked  a  reg'lar  devil,  too!" 

Dolly  and  Theo  stood  facing  each  other  in  the  room 

above.     At  first  they  could  find  no  words.     It  was  a 

strange  meeting,  so  different  from  their  last  on  that 

memorable  evening  in  July.     Then  they  had  met  in  a 

beautiful  room,  full  of  soft  lights  and  the  rich  perfume, 

*  flowers.    They  could  not  tear  their  eyes  away  from 

184 


DOWNWARD  185 

each  other,  they  could  not  leave  each  other's  lips.  Their 
faces  had  been  transfigured  by  the  glow  of  a  great  emo- 
tion— passion  had  enwrapped  them  as  a  cloud  of  fire. 

Now  it  was  chill  October;  they  were  in  a  dingy 
lodging-house.  The  stuffy  air  of  a  closed-up  room, 
smelling  of  soot  and  dust,  oppressed  their  senses.  The 
desire  that  had  held  them  like  a  spell  seemed  a  dead 
thing. 

Dolly  had  pictured  this  meeting  so  often.  They  would 
rush  into  each  other's  arms  as  before,  and  in  that  long 
embrace  all  the  grief  and  pain,  the  suspense  and  tears 
should  be  ended,  healed,  forgotten. 

But  now  they  stood  apart,  regarding  each  other  coldly, 
distrustfully,  without  so  much  as  a  handclasp.  Every 
line  of  Dolly's  suffering,  dimmed  face  was  an  unbearable 
reproach  to  Theo. 

Where  was  the  siren  of  magic  blood  who  had  so  fired 
his  own? — the  Circe  whose  embrace  had  been  an  irre- 
sistible lure? — the  girl  whose  breast  he  had  kissed  in  a 
white  heat  of  passion,  at  whose  feet  he  had  knelt  in 
ecstasy?  .  .  .  This  sorrowful,  tired  woman,  with  red 
eyes  and  a  pinched  mouth,  dressed  in  a  uniform  cloak 
and  bonnet — had  he  really  been  crazed  for  herf 

He  had  been  angry  with  her;  all  these  weeks  he  had 
nursed  a  sulky  resentment  against  her  for  the  wound  she 
had  inflicted  by  "playing"  with  him,  as  he  imagined. 
Then,  too,  the  sorrow  of  his  mother's  death  had  dis- 
tracted his  thoughts  from  amours ;  life  had  become  very 
solemn.  And  there  was  Helen — and  all  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  wedding  three  weeks  hence. 

And,  lastly,  this  story  of  Dolly's  was  hateful  to  him; 
it  had  such  an  adventuress  ring  about  it — such  a  stale, 
novelettish  flavour.  Her  sordid  surroundings  were  hate- 
ful to  him,  too.  The  very  idea  of  fatherhood  was  re- 
pugnant; he  felt  himself  too  young  for  one  thing,  and, 
like  many  amorous  men,  the  philoprogenitive  instinct 
was  as  yet  unknown  to  him.  His  feeling  about  the  whole 
matter  was  summed  up  in  the  words  he  had  written  to 
Dolly:  "It  must  not  be!" 


186  DOWNWARD 

Everything  was  against  poor  Dolly,  but  even  thus  she 
might  have  prevailed  had  she  only  appeared  the  same 
radiant  being  as  before,  for  whom  he  had  been  sick  and 
sorry  many  a  time  since.  So  deep  had  been  her  power  to 
play  on  Theo's  heart-strings,  she  could  even  now  have 
revived  the  old  fire  had  she  looked  as  she  used  to.  She 
could  have  swept  away  all  the  doubt  and  distrust  and 
prudence  from  his  heart,  all  the  obstacles  from  her  path 
— if  her  eyes  and  lips  had  beckoned  as  before,  and  she 
had  opened  her  arms  and  smiled  on  him  with  that  smile 
of  the  incarnate  Life-Force. 

"I— do  sit  down,"  Dolly  said  at  last  "I— I  hardly 
expected  you." 

"You  wrote  to  me." 

"Yes,  but  I've  been  waiting  so  long.  I  thought  you 
were  never  coming.  .  .  .  Oh,  do  say  something!" 

The  implied  reproach  irritated  him,  as  reproach  of 
any  kind  invariably  does  irritate  a  man.  He  was  sorry 
for  her — very,  very  sorry,  though  her  story  seemed  like 
a  vague,  bad  dream,  the  facts  of  which  he  could  hardly 
realize,  still  less  his  responsibility  in  the  matter.  That 
he  was  directly  the  cause  of  her  red  eyes  and  wretched 
appearance  would  never  have  occurred  to  him.  But  the 
streak  of  real  tenderness  in  his  nature  made  him  now 
feel  pitiful  and  kind  to  a  woman  who  was  obviously 
suffering.  He  mastered  his  irritation  and  spoke  gently. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  Dolly, 
awfully  sorry.  I  can  hardly  believe  it  ...  it's  too 
ghastly.  Are  you  sure?" 

Dolly  nodded;  words  would  have  choked  her. 

"It  must  not  be — it  can't  be,"  Theo  went  on,  his 
•fovya  gathering  firmness  as  the  reproaches  he  was  ex- 
pecting remained  unspoken.  "You  know,  of  course,  I'm 
to  be  married  quite  s<x«3?" 

"I  didnt  know!" 

"You  didn't?  Bt*t  Helen  wrote  to  one  of  the  nurses, 
I  understood — I  made  sure  you  knew." 

"I— didn't— know." 

She  felt  dizzy,  weak,  sickened.     She  longed  for  the 


DOWNWARD  187 

earth  to  rise  up  and  cover  her,  to  bury  her  deep,  deep — 
her  and  her  ohild.  There  seemed  no  room  for  either  of 
them.  The  fight  was  too  hard ;  she  would  give  it  up.  .  .  . 
Then  the  primeval  mother-spirit  rose  up  in  her,  the 
wonderful  mother-courage  quickened  her  feeble  pulses. 
She  began  to  speak  rapidly,  looking  at  him  with  pleading 
eyes. 

"I'm  sorry  for  Helen — I'm  bitterly  sorry  for  every- 
thing, but  I  can't  consider  her  now,  nor  my  pride,  nor 
even  you ;  I  must  think  of  the  baby.  Theo — for  the  little 
child's  sake,  let  us  marry.  The  child  must  have  a  chance 
— I  want  everything  for  him.  Oh,  Theo,  you  shan't 
regret  it;  you  shall  be  happy — I'll  be  so  sweet  to  you. 
You  loved  me  so,  only  a  little  time  ago !  For  the  baby, 
Theo.  ...  Oh,  Theo,  don't  make  it  so  hard  for  me." 

Theo  had  the  amorous  man's  dislike  for  anything 
resembling  a  definite  advance  on  the  part  of  a  woman. 
Her  pleadings  made  him  hot,  uncomfortable,  ashamed. 
The  whole  thing  was  indescribably  repugnant  to  him. 
He  looked  at  the  floor. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry,"  he  muttered,  "but  it  simply 
can't  be.  If  it  wasn't  for  Helen — her  arrangements  are 
made " 

"So  are  mine — for  next  April,  and  my  arrangements 
are  irrevocable,  unfortunately!"  She  laughed  bitterly. 
Theo  groaned  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "Oh, 
can't  you  understand,"  Dolly  went  on  desperately, 
"don't  you  realize?  Helen's  claim  is  nothing  to  mine, 
now!" 

The  odious  word  "claim"  from  a  woman  to  a  man! 
This  put  the  last  touch  to  Theo'f  revulsion  of  feeling. 
He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I'm  most  frightfully  sorry,"  he  repeated  yet  again; 
he  seemed  unable  to  get  away  from  that  phrase.  "But 
it  wouldn't  be  possible.  I  couldn't  even  keep  you.  If 
I  break  my  engagement  to  Helen — under  the  terms  of 
my  father's  will,  my  income  would  be  reduced  to 
next  to  nothing." 

"But  couldn't  you  earn  a  living  for  your  child?" 


188  DOWNWARD 

rose  to  Dolly's  lips,  but  she  checked  the  contemptuous 
words. 

"Next  to  nothing?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  it's  my  father's  fault,  an  infernal  mess  he's 
made  of  it.  I  should  only  have  two  hundred  a  year 
certain." 

"Two  hundred!  But  that  would  keep  us  going  at 
least  and  you  could  make  money  as  well.  Thousands  of 
people  bring  up  large  families  decently  on  that  amount. 
I  know  it  would  mean  great  self-denial,  but,  Theo,  it's 
for  the  child! — it  would  be  worth  it.  We  musn't  think 
of  ourselves  now.  I'd  work,  too;  of  course  I  wouldn't 
live  in  idleness  if  you  were  poor." 

"My  dear  girl,  it's  impossible.  Two  hundred! 
Why,  it  wouldn't  be  enough  to  keep  our  servants,  let 
alone  us!" 

"Then  we  could  go  without  servants  for  such  a 
cause!" 

But  the  prospect  did  not  appeal  to  Theo.  The  gloom 
deepened  on  his  face.  Go  without  servants — what  an 
impossible  suggestion !  He  was  anxious  to  cut  short  this 
painful  interview. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  drag  you  down  to  poverty  like 
that,"  he  repeated. 

This  was  too  much  for  Dolly,  who  had  been  struggling 
hard  to  keep  command  of  herself.  "God  in  Heaven! — 
how  far  do  you  think  the  alternative  will  drag  me 
down?"  she  cried.  "Shall  I  be  better  off  as  a  single 
woman  working  to  support  a  child ?  It's  yourself  you're 
afraid  of  dragging  down!" 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  go  on  like  that!  Of 
course  I  shouldn't  let  you  work — if  it  ever  happened. 
But,  Dolly,  don't  you  understand" — he  came  close  to 
her  and  looked  at  her  meaningly  —  "it  must  not 
happenl" 

His  eyes  fell  before  Dolly's  wild  gaze.    He  began  to 
mutter  something  about  drawing  on  him  for  as 
aa  she  wanted. 


DOWNWARD  189 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  money!"  she  gasped;  "that's 
the  end !    I  won 't  touch  your  money ! ' ' 

"Oh,  do  be  sensible,"  he  began,  impatiently. 
" Go  1"  said  Dolly.    "Go  quickly— gol" 


VI 

THE  meeting  on  which  all  depended  was  over.  All 
these  weeks  Dolly  had  concentrated  her  thoughts  and 
plans  on  it.  Beyond  it  she  had  not  dared  look  for  long. 
Now  she  found  herself  compelled  to  face  the  situation 
in  its  full  severity.  Theo  had  left  her  to  her  fate. 

The  suspense,  at  least,  was  over  and  that  brought  her 
a  certain  bitter  relief.  She  knew  now  just  where  she 
stood. 

"This  is  'seeing  life,'  "  she  told  herself,  ironically,  as 
she  sat  at  a  rickety  table  by  her  bedroom  window  study- 
ing the  much-marked  calendar  and  a  page  of  accounts. 
"This  is  'real  life'  with  a  vengeance.  I've  hankered 
after  it  often  enough,  and  now  I've  got  it  in  good  meas- 
ure, pressed  down  and  running  over.  I  didn't  bargain 
for  a  tragedy,  though !  I  'm  a  tragic  heroine  now,  to  be 
sure,  the  subject  of  dozens  of  novels  and  plays,  betrayed 
and  deserted  in  quite  the  orthodox  manner.  This  is 
'fulfilling  one's  womanhood,'  I  suppose,  and  'realizing 
one's  purpose  in  life.'  Heavens!  I  should  just  like  the 
men  who  write  all  that  stuff  to  have  a  taste  of  what  it 
actually  means.  .  .  . 

"Ten  pounds  of  salary,  three  pounds  already  in  hand 
and  seventy-five  Dacre's  got  of  mine.  Thank  Heaven,  I 
gtill  have  that — eighty-eight  pounds  in  all.  I  wish  now 
I  hadn't  refused  to  take  any  more  from  Anthony,  but 
no — I  couldn't  accept  money  from  him  even  now.  If  he 
knew  about  this!  .  .  .  Eighty-eight  pounds,  fourteen 
weeks  gone — that's  twenty-six  more  to  run  and  quite 
eight  weeks  after.  Thirty-four  weeks.  I  can  just  scrape 
through  if  I'm  very  careful  and  get  a  cheap  doctor  and 
nurse,  but  I  shouldn't  have  a  penny  left — and  after- 
Wards?  What  would  become  of  us  afterwards?" 
190 


DOWNWARD  191 

She  put  her  head  down  on  her  hands,  repeating  over 
and  over  to  herself:  "What  can  I  do?  What  shall  I 
do?"  The  future  painted  itself  grimly  before  her. 
Twenty-six  weeks  in  this  dreary  room  or  its  counterpart 
in  utter  loneliness — practising  rigid  economy,  in  ever- 
increasing  weakness  and  infirmity — avoiding  her  kind 
for  fear  she  should  meet  one  who  knew  her.  And  then 
the  dread  hour  would  strike  at  last,  and  she  would  have 
to  meet  it  ...  alone ! 

"It's  the  loneliness  I  mind  most,"  she  thought.  "I 
might  have  been  able  to  bear  being  unmarried,  though 
I'm  more  conventional  than  I  thought,  but  I  could  have 
borne  it  perhaps,  if  he  had  stuck  to  me,  and  I  'd  had  him 
to  turn  to  at  the  last  .  .  .  and  afterwards.  A  woman 
wants  a  man  with  her  in  a  show  like  this. 

"But  the  loneliness — the  awful  loneliness!  No  one  to 
talk  to,  not  even  at  meals,  no  one  to  share  anything  with, 
no  one  to  say  good-morning  or  good-night  to,  no  one  to 
come  back  to  when  one  goes  out.  .  .  .  No,  I  couldn't 
stand  it!  All  my  life  I've  been  with  people,  lots  of 
people :  how  on  earth  do  some  women  manage  to  live 
alone  all  their  lives  ?  I  'd  die  of  it ! 

"Twenty-six  weeks — half  a  year!  And  nothing  to  do 
all  the  time  but  the  needlework,  which  doesn't  stop  one 
thinking — all  my  life  I've  had  lots  to  occupy  myself 
with.  .  .  .  Needlework  and  going  little  crawls  in  back 
streets,  keeping  out  of  people's  way,  then  back  to  the 
empty  room  and  more  needlework.  .  .  .  No,  no,  I  can't! 

"I  might  join  a  library  and  read  lots  of  books;  and  I 
could  live  in  the  country  somewhere.  At  least  it  would 
be  possible  to  walk  about  freely  there  without  the  fear 
of  meeting  people  who  knew  one,  but  the  loneliness 
would  be  still  worse — and  in  the  winter,  too,  nothing  but 
muddy  lanes  and  wet  fields.  No,  worse  than  ever ! 

"And  afterwards — that  awful  afterwards!  I  should 
have  to  put  the  baby  out  somewhere,  with  some  hard-up 
farmer's  wife.  I  should  hardly  ever  see  it  ...  it 
wouldn't  love  me.  And  I  should  have  to  earn  for  two. 
I've  always  spent  my  salary  and  my  allowance  as  well, 


192  DOWNWARD 

just  on  clothes  and  foolery,  and  now  I've  no  allow- 
ance. ...  I  could  earn  more  at  private  nursing,  of 
course,  but  that's  not  always  certain,  and,  with  a  child 
to  keep,  I  could  scarcely  afford  to  be  out  of  work  for 
even  a  week.  ...  It  might  be  some  time  before  I  could 
get  a  stage  engagement,  even  if  I'm  ever  fit  to  dance 
again  .  .  .  but  the  stage  is  very,  very  uncertain  at  the 
best,  and  I  couldn't  afford  to  run  any  risks  now. 

"And  then,  worst  of  all,  I  could  never  live  with  my 
baby.  I  could  never  make  a  proper  home  for  it  like 
Mother  did  for  me.  All  my  life  I'd  have  to  work  for  it 
apart,  until  it  could  work  for  itself — what  an  existence 
to  bring  a  little  creature  into !  And  I  should  always  be 
second  with  it  ...  it  would  love  the  farmer's  wife  or 
the  school-teacher  more  than  the  mother  it  hardly  ever 
saw.  ...  I  should  have  ruined  my  life  for  nothing! 

"And  no  one  would  be  likely  to  marry  me  now  .  .  . 
men  are  so  conventional  at  heart.  Even  if  I  found  one 
big-hearted  enough  to  take  on  me  and  my  child,  it's  so 
unlikely  that  I  should  care  for  him  enough — I'm  so  fas- 
tidious with  men.  I've  never  longed  for  a  home  before, 
I've  never  yearned  for  a  house  of  my  own  and  a  man  on 
the  hearth-rug,  like  Jessop  and  Morley  and  Helen  and 
almost  all  the  women  I  know  do — even  B rooky!  My 
ambitions  have  been  in  another  direction.  I  only  wanted 
to  marry  Theo  because  of  the  child.  .  .  .  But,  oh!  I  do 
want  a  home  now  for  the  child !  And  I  shall  never  have 
one.  I've  done  for  myself — done  for  at  twenty-five!" 

Slow  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  on  to  the  account 
books,  infinitely  bitter  tears.  "I  can't!  I  can't!  I 
can't!"  she  moaned.  "Theo  was  right  ,  »  .  'it  must 
not  bel'  " 


vn 

NURSE  CLIFFORD  was  horrified  and  indignant  beyond 
all  measnre  when  she  heard  Dolly's  account  of  the  inter- 
view with  Theo.  She  implored  Dolly  to  take  the  obvious 
way  ont  of  the  difficulty  and  appeal  to  Helen.  Helen, 
she  felt  sure,  would  never  dream  of  marrying  Theo  in 
such  circumstances,  and  if  Helen  withdrew  from  the 
engagement  of  her  own  accord  Theo's  inheritance  would 
not  be  interfered  with  and  he  would  be  free  to  marry 
Dolly. 

But  Dolly  refused  to  hear  of  it.  To  let  Pate  take  its 
course  and  push  Helen  from  her  path  would  have  been 
bad  enough.  But  to  ask  Helen  to  deliberately  take  Fate 
into  her  own  hands  and  destroy  her  happiness  of  her 
own  volition — no,  that  was  unthinkable. 

"I  wouldn't  marry  him  now,"  Dolly  declared.  "I 
only  wanted  to,  so  that  the  child  should  have  a  home  and 
an  acknowledged  father,  but  after  his  letter,  and  the 
tilings  he  said  about  money,  and  the  spirit  he  showed 
about  the  whole  thing — I  see  now  that  he  isn  't  the  right 
person  to  help  provide  a  proper  atmosphere  for  a  child's 
upbringing.  And  what  sort  of  a  father  would  he  make 
— a  man  who  loathes  the  idea  of  fatherhood?  ...  oh, 
yes,  he  made  that  plain  enough. 

"I  understand  him  so  well,"  she  continued,  "because 
we're  so  alike.  At  first  it  hurt  me  frightfully,  but  I've 
thought  it  all  out  quite  clearly.  Theo's  really  devoted 
to  Helen ;  he 's  been  looking  forward  to  marrying  her  for 
years.  He's  got  the  proper  home-y  feeling  about  her 
— not  a  scrap  of  passion,  of  course,  but  the  real  mar- 
riage feeling,  just  as  I  could  have  had  for  Dacre,  if  he  'd 
cared  for  me  enough.  But  for  me  Theo's  feeling  was 
all  passion ;  he  was  crazed  about  me,  and  I  felt  the  same 
for  him.  We  were  two  flames  that  rushed  together — 
193 


194  DOWNWARD 

that  were  bound  to  rush  together.  That's  the  feeling 
that  makes  the  great  amours,  the  grand  passion — but  not 
the  happy  marriages." 

"It  all  sounds  very  crazy  and  disreputable,"  said 
Nurse  Clifford,  shrugging  hor  shoulders  resignedly,  and 
the  laugh  with  which  Dolly  hailed  this  speech  gave  her 
real  joy.  Dol3y  had  not  laughed  like  that  for  weeks. 

"Of  course  when  he  saw  me  plain  and  importunate," 
she  continued,  "I'd  lost  all  my  magnetism  for  him,  and 
he  positively  disliked  me.  It  seems  odd  that  a  man  who 
kisses  your  feet  and  goes  white  at  your  touch  one  day 
can  really  dislike  you  the  next,  but  it's  so.  I  do  under- 
stand men  if  nothing  else." 

"And  I  don't— not  that  kind  of  man!"  said  the  other, 
positively. 

"No,  you  only  understand  the  nice,  clean,  red-faced, 
honest,  good  fellows,  who  don't  talk  about  honour  but 
act  it.  Theo  does  just  the  opposite.  Your  men  are  un- 
imaginative, excellent  creatures  who  play  at  hitting 
various  kinds  of  balls  as  if  their  lives  depended  on  it, 
and  believe  in  the  British  Constitution  and  'what-was- 
good-enough-f or-my-f ather, '  etc.,  etc.  Your  kind  of  men 
marry  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  spirit,  and  settle  down  to  beget  stolid  little  public- 
school  boys  and  their  female  counterparts.  But  Theo 
is  so  different:  one  could  imagine  him  climbing  up  a 
woman's  balcony,  or  swimming  a  moat  or  doing  any- 
thing mad  and  adventurous  to  reach  her,  but  never  en- 
tering with  a  latch-key  at  the  front  door  to  be  told  that 
dinner  was  served ! ' ' 

Nurse  Clifford  nodded  interestedly,  but  did  not  speak. 
It  was  so  nice  to  hear  Dolly  rattling  on  in  the  old  man- 
ner, when  for  weeks  she  had  hardly  spoken  at  all 

"If  circumstances  hadn't  forced  it  on  me,"  she  con- 
tinued, apparently  quite  absorbed  in  her  subject,  "I 
should  never  have  thought  of  Theo  in  connexion  with 
marriage.  To  me  he's  essentially  the  lover,  the  kind  of 
man  with  whom  one  could  only  live  free,  never  tied.  I 
could  make  him  care  for  me  just  the  same,  any  day, 


DOWNWARD  195 

once  I'm  myself  again.  And  when  I  get  over  this  I 
know  I  shall  often  feel  I'd  give  my  soul  for  one  of  his 
kisses;  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he'll  think  sometime* 
of  me,  as  I  was,  and  burn  to  have  my  arms  for  one  min- 
ute round  his  neck.  But  we  shall  never  meet  again — it's 
done  with!" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  can  understand  you!"  ejaculated 
Nurse  Clifford.  "But  now,  to  consider  Helen's  point  of 
view — do  you  honestly  think  it's  fair  to  let  Helen  marry 
that  weak,  miserable  coward  without  a  word  of  warning  ? 
Sho  wouldn't  touch  him  with  the  tongs  if  ahe  knewl" 

"Oh,  yes  she  would;  she  loves  him — he's  her  'one 
man. '  She  wouldn  't  thank  you  for  your  word  of  warn- 
ing, and  it  would  nearly  break  her  heart  to  know  what 
he  had  done,  but  her  feeling  for  him  would  be  just  the 
same.  She'd  give  him  up  to  me,  very  possibly,  for 
duty's  sake,  and  if  he  wished  it,  but  she'd  never  marry 
any  other  man.  She  would  rather  take  Theo  juat  as  he 
is  or  worse  than  have  the  noblest  husband  in  the  uni- 
verse. Don't  you  know  that  when  a  really  good  woman 
wants  to  marry  a  certain  man,  no  fault  or  sin  on  his  part 
will  alter  her  feelings?  Helen  knows  all  Theo 'a  faults 
and  weaknesses — and  ignores  them.  That's  Love,  the 
Real  Love  that  'suffereth  long  and  is  kind — btareth  all 
things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things.'  ' 

"It's  all  very  strange,"  said  the  other  woman,  "very 
strange  and  topsy-turvy.  Aa  you  say,  love  is  a  thing 
nobody  really  understands." 

When  she  departed,  it  was  with  feelings  greatly  re- 
lieved that  Dolly  was  bearing  up  so  well  and  apparently 
prepared  to  face  the  situation  courageously.  This  mis- 
taken conviction  proved  a  comfort  to  her  in  the  month 
that  followed,  during  which  she  was  kept  to  her  bed  with 
an  unusually  sharp  attack  of  influenza  and  did  not  see 
her  friend. 

But  when  Nurse  Clifford  had  gone,  Dolly's  mood 
changed,  and  she  fell  again  to  her  bitter  thinking.  In 
her  loneliness  she  stretched  out  her  arms  for  Theo  and 
shrieked  aloud  at  the  awful  prospect  of  the  future. 


vm 

ALL  tikis  tima  she  had  kept  away  from  Dacre,  whom 
she  had  not  even  told  of  her  departure  from  the  nursing 
home. 

Anthony  Raven,  however — on  learning  in  the  course 
of  a  gossiping  conversation  with  Sister  Meredith  that 
Nurse  Fitzgerald  had  not  yet  taken  a  new  post,  or  asked 
for  a  recommendation — made  inquiries  of  the  lawyer, 
who  naturally  could  tell  him  nothing.  Hamilton  was 
feeling  very  anxious  about  Dolly,  and  it  was  a  great 
relief  to  him  when  she  called  at  the  office  a  fortnight  or 
so  after  her  interview  with  Theo. 

She  wore  her  uniform  always  now.  Formerly  she  had 
disliked  it  and  worn  it  as  little  as  possible  in  the  street, 
except  when  her  wardrobe  was  at  low  ebb  between 
seasons;  but  now  she  clung  to  it  as  a  symbol  of  respect- 
ability. 

Although  Dolly  had  come  resolved  to  be  on  her  guard, 
a  few  of  the  lawyer's  casual  questions  confirmed  his 
worst  fears.  She  had  not  taken  another  post,  although 
her  refusal  of  Raven's  allowance  made  an  idle  period 
especially  undesirable;  she  was  resting  because  she  felt 
"run  down,"  though  so  soon  after  her  holiday;  she 
looked  haggard,  miserable,  changed,  and  she  wanted 
twenty  pounds  or  so  of  her  money  without  giving  any 
reason. 

His  face  became  v«ry  stern,  for  he  had  seen  the  an- 
nouncement of  Theo's  forthcoming  marriage  to  Helen 
in  the  Morning  Post  a  few  days  before. 

So  it  had  come — what  her  father  had  seemed  to  expect 
— what  he  himself  had  tried  to  guard  the  girl  against. 
He  had  done  his  best  for  Valerie's  daughter  ail  these 
196 


DOWNWARD  197 

years,  but  his  heart  was  sick  within  him  as  he  realized 
that  his  efforts  had  availed  nothing. 

He  found  himself  hoping  she  would  give  him  her  con- 
fidence— searching  for  words  with  which  to  invite  it,  but 
for  once  his  agile  brain  was  at  a  loss.  He  felt  stunned 
at  this  discovery. 

"Your  'trustee'  was  furious  at  your  returning  the 
last  cheque,"  he  said  at  length.  "He  inquired  of  me 
what  you  were  doing." 

"Well,  as  I'm  not  taking  his  money,  he's  no  right  to 
know  anything  about  me.  Don't  tell  him  a  thing — 
promise  me  you  won't,  Dacre.  I  wouldn't  have  him 
know  for  worlds  now " 

She  checked  herself  sharply,  and  the  lawyer  felt  his 
last  lingering  doubt  vanish.  She  was  in  trouble,  he  was 
sure  now — and  she  had  very  little  money.  He  longed 
to  help  her  —  he  must  —  how  could  he  gain  her  confi- 
dence ? 

"Why  now  particularly,  Dolly?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no  reason  particularly,  only  ...  I  hate  him.  I 
owe  him  nothing  but  silence,  and  he  hates  me.  Why 
should  he  pry  after  me?" 

"Well,  he  has  this  one  good  point,  he's  always  wanted 
to  be  sure  you  had  enough  of  everything.  Why  don't 
you  take  the  money,  Dolly?  .  .  .  You — you'll  want 
money  .  .  .  now." 

It  was  out !  Dolly  gave  him  a  quick,  fierce  glance,  but 
meeting  his  tender,  troubled  gaze,  the  angry  words 
stayed  on  her  lips. 

"You,  too!"  she  said,  just  audibly,  and  as  the  red 
flood  rushed  into  her  cheeks,  she  bowed  her  head  in  her 
hands,  and  Dacre  saw  the  tide  of  hot  blood  rise  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair. 

"Forgive  me,  Dolly  dear,  forgive  me.  I'm  so  sorry;  I 
want  to  help  you." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  whilst  he  listened  to  her 
weeping,  he  stroked  her  hand,  as  he  had  done  at  that 
first  meeting  ten  years  ago. 

He  thought  of  the  young,  bright-haired  girl  who  had 


198  DOWNWARD 

come  into  his  office  that  day — a  child  with  all  life's 
possibilities  before  her.  Why  hadn't  he  realized  sooner 
how  fond  he  was  of  her?  Why  had  he  let  this  cursed 
work-craze  gain  such  a  hold  on  his  life  that  he  had  no 
time  to  look  into  his  own  heart  ?  He  might  have  married 
her  himself  and  kept  her  safe  .  .  .  fifteen  years  wasn't 
such  a  discrepancy  nowadays.  Fool  that  he  was  not  to 
have  tried  1  ...  and  now  that  young  brute  had  brought 
her  to  shame,  and  it  was  too  late — too  late  1 

At  last  Dolly  raised  her  head,  but  she  could  not  meet 
his  eyea.  She  kept  her  face  retting  on  her  hand. 

"How  did  you  know?  It's  awful  the  way  people 
seem  to  guess."  The  words  were  spoken  very  low. 
Dacre  fondled  the  little  hand  he  held,  as  he  answered  a 
trifle  nervously: 

"Well,  my  dear,  I'm  a  lawyer,  and  I  hear  a  good 
many  confidences  and  knock  up  against  all  sides  of  life. 
And  I  know  that  men  are  nearly  always  brutes,  and 
women  very  often  much  too  sweet  and  kind  to  us,  and 
when  I  see  a  beautiful  girl  looking  hunted,  and  all  to 
pieces,  full  of  a  mysterious  grief  .  .  .  well,  Dolly,  it's 
not  difficult  to  guess  that  she's  suffering  from  that  in- 
fernally unjust  law  that  women  must  always  pay  the 
bill  for  what  man  has  brought  about." 

This  very  weak  explanation  seemed  to  satisfy  Dolly, 
to  Hamilton's  relief.  He  knew  she  would  be  cruelly 
humiliated  had  she  guessed  how  his  suspicions  had 
really  arisen.  Then,  too,  he  could  not  have  mentioned 
Anthony  Haven's  confidence,  as  it  had  been  given  pro- 
fessionally. 

"And — you  don't  despise  me?"  said  Dolly,  still 
keeping  her  face  hidden. 

"Despise  you! — don't  say  it,  child.  I  want  to  help 
you.  Promise  me  you'll  let  me  make  things  comfortable 
for  you.  You'll  want  lots  of  money  now — count  it  as  a 
loan  if  you  like." 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Dolly,  faintly,  but 
in  her  heart  the  words  rose:  "/  shan't  want  much  .  s  9 
'ft  must  not  &*.'  " 


DOWNWARD  199 

"And  .  .  ."  he  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words;  in  his 
agitation  he  held  her  hand  so  tightly  that  she  glanced 
up  at  him  in  surprise.  "...And,  Dolly,  I've  often 
thought  ...  it's  occurred  to  me  lately  ...  if  you 
cared  to  ...  if  you  only  would  ..." 

Dolly  shook  her  head.  "Please,  Dacre,  please!"  she 
said,  awd  he  was  silenced.  "Another  minute  and  he'd 
hftTe  proposed  to  me,"  she  told  herself,  "and  in  the  cir- 
cumstances that  would  be  an  indelicacy  which  I  could 
never  have  forgiven  .  .  .  men  don't  understand.  It's 
gloriously  chivalrous,  of  eourse,  but  I  couldn't  have 
stood  it;  I'd  rather  die  than  be  married  out  of  pity. 
If  he  really  wanted  me  he'd  have  asked  before." 

It  was  Dolly  who  did  not  understand ! 

She  began  to  question  him  about  her  mother,  of  whom 
she  had  recently  thought  a  great  deal.  Dacre  had  but 
little  information  about  Valerie.  His  father,  who  had 
been  her  confident,  had  told  him  something  and  he  had 
had  one  long  talk  with  her  when  she  was  first  struck 
down  by  her  final  illness.  But  from  what  he  told  her 
and  from  what  she  already  knew,  Dolly  was  able  to 
piece  the  story  together. 

She  was  the  child  of  a  great  love,  that  she  had  always 
known.  Why  her  parents  had  not  married  she  could  not 
guess.  Perhaps  the  young  medical  student,  with  his  way 
to  make,  had  felt  an  early  marriage  with  an  obscure 
little  actress  to  be  undesirable  for  him.  Perhaps  Valerie, 
a  girl  of  twenty,  had  loved  him  too  well  to  make  condi- 
tions, and  having  once  given  herself  had  found  it  was 
too  late,  as  millions  of  other  women  have  done. 

Remembering  Anthony's  fascination  even  in  middle 
age — Dolly  could  picture  him  an  irresistible,  reckless, 
glorious  young  lover.  He  had  been  little  more  than  a 
boy  himself — he  was  still  a  year  or  two  short  of  fifty 
now.  Dolly  remembered  that  Valerie  had  spoken  of 
three  wonderful  years  of  happiness;  their  love  was  old 
and  tried,  therefore,  before  they  parted,  but  it  was  news 
to  her  to  learn  that  she  was  the  cause  of  that  parting. 
Anthony  had  not  wanted  a  child. 


200  DOWNWARD 

"He  was  a  qualified  doctor  then  ...  it  would  have 
been  quite  possible  for  him  to  have  arranged  the  mat- 
ter," was  the  way  Dacre  put  it,  but  Valerie  had  refused. 
She  longed  for  a  child;  she  counted  this  one  her  justifi- 
cation. Anthony  had  sworn  he  would  leave  her — and 
bade  her  choose  between  lover  and  child,  and  she  had 
chosen  Dolly. 

Dolly  wept  afresh  as  she  listened.  Poor,  brave  little 
mother — what  wonderful  spirit  she  had  shown! — what 
a  high  moral  courage  and  sense  of  right  had  been  hers ! 
How  greatly  she  had  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  her 
belief — love,  happiness,  all!  Yet  she  had  been  more 
than  two  years  younger  than  was  Dolly  now,  and  she 
had  more  to  lose  than  had  her  daughter. 

Dolly  felt  bitterly  ashamed ;  how  weak  and  wicked  she 
seemed  in  comparison  with  this  noble-hearted  young 
mother.  Theo's  mere  hint  had  been  enough  to  seriously 
set  her  contemplating  the  destruction  of  her  hope  of 
motherhood  —  the  most  hideous  dishonour  of  which  a 
woman  can  be  capable.  She  could  imagine  what  her 
mother  had  suffered,  how  the  impetuous  young  lover 
had  stormed  and  pleaded  and  implored;  how  he  had 
finally  flung  himself  off  in  a  fierce  rage,  and  had  kept 
his  vow  never  to  return.  Dolly  had  inherited  his  tem- 
per and  his  hot  blood,  and  this  with  her  knowledge  of 
him  in  middle  age,  gave  her  an  idea  of  what  he  must 
have  been  like  then.  Yet  Valerie  had  withstood  it  all — 
rage  and  pleading  alike,  her  love,  her  need  and  her  own 
heart's  longing. 

"She  must  have  had  to  face  the  loneliness,  too," 
thought  Dolly,  "only  worse,  because  theirs  was  just  like 
a  marriage.  What  a  lesson  for  me ! ' '  Yet  in  her  heart 
again  rose  that  spectral  thought:  "It  must  not  be." 

Dacre  told  her  how,  shortly  after  his  parting  from 
Valerie,  Raven  had  married  an  heiress,  out  of  pique,  and 
with  her  money  had  gone  to  specialize  on  the  brain  in 
Vienna.  She  died  at  the  end  of  a  year,  possibly  from 
a  broken  heart,  Dolly  thought  to  herself  —  she  could 
imagine  how  he  had  treated  his  unloved  wife,  his 


DOWNWARD  201 

heart  sore  for  Valerie.  Later  he  had  set  up  in  Harley 
Street,  and  married  another  rich  woman,  who  had  died 
at  the  birth  of  a  son.  This  son  was  the  one  being  besides 
Valerie  whom  Anthony  had  loved,  and  he,  always  a 
sickly  child,  had  died  at  the  age  of  eight.  Dacre  at- 
tributed Anthony's  feeling  against  Dolly  partly  to  this 
fact.  She,  the  unwanted  daughter,  who  had  lost  him 
the  love  of  his  life  had  lived  and  was  strong  and  healthy, 
while  the  son  whom  he  had  grown  to  care  for  in  his 
maturity  had  been  too  frail  to  live. 

"Yet  he's  always  had  this  strong  feeling  of  respon- 
sibility for  you,"  Dacre  said,  "and  I  give  him  credit 
for  it,  since  most  men  utterly  detach  themselves  from 
their  illegitimate  children,  and  consider  that  a  money 
payment  entirely  meets  the  case.  I've  had  many  settle- 
ments of  that  kind  to  prepare,  and  the  father's  attitude 
has  always  struck  me  as  extraordinary,  considering  the 
children  born  out  of  wedlock  are  every  whit  as  much 
their  own  flesh  and  blood.  But  your  father  has  always 
been  accountable  for  you,  and  perhaps  the  weight  of  it 
on  his  mind  has  helped  to  set  him  against  you." 

"He  must  never,  never  know  about  .  .  .  this,"  said 
Dolly,  "that  would  be  the  last  horror.  Promise  me, 
Dacre,  that  he  shall  never  guess  I" 


IX 

ANOTHER  two  weeks  dragged  wearily  past.  The  lone- 
liness grew  more  and  more  oppressive  to  her  as  the  hours 
of  daylight  grew  shorter.  Soon  Dolly  found  herself  de- 
taining, on  one  pretext  or  another,  the  little  maid  who 
waited  on  her,  and  even  making  talk  with  the  sour-faced 
landlady  when  they  met  in  the  hall.  "Presently  I  shall 
be  glad  to  have  my  meals  in  the  kitchen,  I  expect,"  she 
thought.  "I  begin  to  think  loneliness  is  the  most  awful 
thing  in  the  world,  when  you've  got  something  on  your 
mind.  Why,  why  did  Cliff  get  iU,  now  of  all  times? 
Another  week  of  these  horrors  will  drive  me  mad." 

The  thoughts  of  her  mother  she  had  resolutely  ban- 
ished from  her  mind.  Sometimes  she  wondered  that  her 
reason  did  not  give  way.  Both  the  courses  open  to  her 
required  the  utmost  courage,  and  she  felt  she  had  not 
sufficient  for  either.  Whichever  way  she  looked  she  saw 
desolation  and  dishonour. 

The  day  after  Theo's  visit  she  had  called  on  Delia 
Delarue.  "Difficulties"  such  as  Dolly's  were  by  no 
means  rare  occurrences  in  the  circle  to  which  that  lady 
belonged.  Her  coarse  reminiscences  made  Dolly  shud- 
der ;  it  had  cost  her  a  great  effort  to  make  the  necessary 
confidence,  but  she  endured  it  for  the  sake  of  the  definite 
purpose  which  had  brought  her  there. 

When  she  left,  she  had  obtained  a  great  deal  of  un- 
savory lore  of  a  certain  kind,  and  an  address  written 
on  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"Mind  you,  it's  only  as  a  last  resource,"  Delia  had 
said,  "and  if  you  can  keep  off  it,  do — as  it's  really  a 
devil's  business.    And  remember,  you've  sworn  to  leave 
my  name  out  whatever  happens!" 
202 


DOWNWARD  203 

"Don't  be  afraid,  I  shall  keep  my  promise. " 
The  address  Dolly  put  away  in  her  writing-case,  but 
the  thought  of  it  haunted  her,  and  she  returned  to  it 
again  and  again.  The  evening  after  her  visit  to  Dacre, 
she  had  burnt  the  piece  of  paper,  but  the  address  was 
impressed  on  her  memory.  It  repeated  itself  in  her  ears 
all  day ;  at  night,  when  she  tried  to  sleep,  it  was  written 
in  letters  of  flame  before  her  aching  eyes.  And  day  and 
night  the  words  with  which  Theo  had  doomed  her  echoed 
through  her  brain  in  unending  repetition : 
"It  must  not  be!" 


THE  hour  struck  when  Dolly  could  bear  it  no  longer 
She  was  rushing  through  the  streets  now  in  the  direction 
of  Euston  Road.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock  at  night. 
Here  and  there  in  the  bright  circle  of  the  lamp-posts  a 
passer-by  stared  curiously  at  the  white  face  and  wild 
eyes  of  the  hurrying  woman,  and  wondered  at  the  cause 
of  her  haste. 

...  At  last  she  reached  her  destination,  a  house  in  a 
side  street.  The  blinds  were  closely  drawn,  a  faint  light 
glimmered  from  behind  them.  She  rang  and  knocked 
several  times  at  the  shut  door  before  it  was  opened  an 
inch  or  two,  and  the  impudent,  face  of  a  woman  in  a 
soiled  print  gown  appeared.  The  door  was  kept  on  the 
chain,  and  while  the  woman  inquired  Dolly's  business  in 
a  familiar  manner,  she  was  looking  keenly  beyond  to  see 
if  the  visitor  had  a  companion  in  the  background,  or  if 
any  one  else  was  lurking  near. 

"Too  late  now,  my  dear,"  she  said,  familiarly,  and  in- 
dicated the  card  fastened  to  the  door,  which  bore  the 
words:  Consultations  between  10  and  12  a.  m.  "You 
come  at  11  to-morrow  and  you'll  be  fixed  up  a  treat." 
She  leered  unpleasantly  at  the  shrinking  girl  and  then 
suddenly  banged  the  door  upon  her. 

Before  lying  down  that  night  Dolly  took  a  strong  dose 
of  the  sleeping-draught  she  had  lately  started.  ' '  I  shall 
have  to  go  to-morrow,"  she  thought.  "I  daren't  die  and 
I  daren't  go  through  with  it.  ...  But  I  shall  never  be 
happy  again — never  feel  clean — never  hold  up  my  head. 
Yet  nothing  at  all  happens  to  Theo!" 

Dolly  rose  at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning — her  head 
204 


DOWNWARD  20; 

aching  intensely  from  the  strong  sleeping-draught.  She 
drank  a  cup  of  tea  and  put  the  room  in  order  to  pass  the 
time.  At  ten  o'clock  she  was  standing  at  her  window, 
looking  down  into  the  street  far  below,  and  wondering 
how  long  one  could  retain  consciousness  after  jumping 
from  that  height,  or  whether  one  would  die  instantane- 
ously—  when  she  noticed  a  smart  carriage  and  pair 
stopping  at  the  lodging-house  door. 

Some  minutes  afterwards  there  was  a  tap  at  her  door, 
and  almost  before  she  could  utter  a  listless  "come  in," 
the  little  maid-of-all-work  had  burst  excitedly  into  the 
room  and  announced — breathless  from  the  climb  and  the 
staggering  novelty  of  a  cockaded  footman  on  the  steps 
of  their  own  establishment — "A  lady  to  see  you,  Miss — 
Miss  Tregawring!" 

Dolly  wheeled  sharply  round  to  meet  the  outstretched 
hands  of  Helen — a  strangely  radiant  Helen  with  pink 
cheeks  and  shining  eyes,  clad  in  white  cloth  and  ermine, 
with  lilies  on  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Dolly — I  felt  I  must  come;  I  can  only  stop  a 
second.  Forgive  me,  dear — how  can  I  say  it?  Last 
night  I  was  at  Meredith  House  to  say  good-bye,  and  I 
heard  something  about  you — just  a  rumour — Dicky  and 
Brooks,  you  know.  .  .  .  Oh,  Dolly,  it  isn't  true,  surely?" 

"Quite  true,  Helen."  Dolly's  voice  was  hard  and 
cold;  she  drew  back  from  Helen's  embrace. 

"Oh,  you  poor  little  thing!  Don't  repulse  me,  dear; 
my  heart  aches  for  you.  I'm  so  happy  to-day,  I  want 
every  one  else  to  be  happy.  I  felt  I  must  come,  though 
my  uncle  is  furious — he's  waiting  in  the  carriage.  It's 
my  wedding-day,  Dolly.  I've  stopped  on  my  way  to 
church,  because  I  felt  I  simply  could  not  leave  England 
without  knowing  about  you  .  .  .  we're  going  to  Cairo 
for  our  honeymoon,  and  shall  be  away  perhaps  all  the 
winter." 

"You're  going  to  be  married  to-day?" 

"Yes,  at  eleven  o'clock — didn't  you  know?" 

"You're  going  to  be  married  at  eleven?" 

"Yea— why  .  .  .?" 


206  DOWNWARD 

"Oh,  nothing,  only  the  idea  of  marriage  is  so  amusing 
somehow,  especially  to-day  at  eleven!"  She  broke  into 
peals  of  hysterical  laughter.  Helen  held  her  hands 
tightly — all  the  radiance  had  gone  from  the  bride's  face. 

"Poor  little  Dolly,"  she  murmured,  soothingly,  "poor 
little  Dolly !  That's  what  I  wanted  to  know ;  aren't  you 
going  to  marry,  dear?" 

"No!" 

"Oh,  how  dreadful  for  you!  Why  don't  you? — it 
would  be  better  so,  whoever  it  is.  It's  not  that  horrid 
Colin  Lester^  surely  ? ' ' 

"No,  quite  an  immaculate  young  man,  with  heaps  of 
money." 

"Dolly,  I  can't  understand  you."  The  tender-hearted 
woman  was  deeply  pained.  Dolly's  eyes  glittered 
strangely. 

For  one  mad  moment  she  was  tempted  to  make  Helen 
understand,  to  shriek  out  the  truth  to  her:  "I  can't 
marry  him,  because  you're  going  to,  this  morning  at 
eleven!  And  when  he  is  standing  in  church  with  you, 
I  shall  be  tearing  the  very  heart  out  of  my  body — our 
child  — mine  and  Theo's!  mine  and  Theo's!  That's 
why!  That's  why!" 

She  longed  to  shriek  out  the  dreadful  sentences — to 
beat  them  into  Helen's  face.  Her  mind  pictured  Theo 
waiting  at  the  chancel  steps — Theo,  in  wedding  gar- 
ments, rather  pale  and  excited,  his  green  eyes  very 
bright,  his  dark  hair  brushed  carefully  back.  Around 
would  be  the  little  group  of  relatives.  She  knew  some 
of  them  by  sight — Sir  John  and  Lady  Tregonin,  Lady 
Merioneth — so  very  much  grande  dame — Theo's  distin- 
guished soldier-uncles,  and  his  godfather,  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice.  All  these  important  people  would  have 
kindly  words,  approval  and  blessings  for  Theo,  admira- 
tion and  congratulations  for  the  bride.  But  the  bride 
would  not  come ;  Dolly  would  stop  her !  The  bridegroom 
should  wait  and  wait  in  vain,  as  Dolly  had  waited  for 
his  letter,  sick  at  heart.  He  should  be  bitterly  shamed 
as  she  had  been  shamed ! 


DOWNWARD  207 

She  would  stop  the  marriage — a  word  would  do  it !  A 
word  from  her  would  turn  the  heads  of  Sir  John  Trego- 
nin's  horses  round,  a  word  from  her  would  send  Helen 
back  to  her  uncle 's  home  unwed,  a  word  from  her  would 
brand  Theo  as  a  seducer  and  a  coward  in  the  eyes  of  all 
who  heard! 

She  wanted  every  one  to  hear.  She  wanted  to  shriek 
it  from  the  housetops!  At  that  moment  she  saw  red — 
all  was  red:  Helen's  fate  hung  in  the  balance.  Then 
Dolly  spoke  .  .  .  and  spared. 

"You'd  best  not  understand,  Helen!  D'you  hear — 
you  had  better  not!  I'm  no  suitable  subject  for  your 
thoughts — put  me  away  from  them.  You  must  go  now, 
or  you'll  keep  your  bridegroom  waiting,  and  he  won't 
like  that.  Ha!  ha!  I  know  he  won't  like  that!  And 
I've  an  appointment  at  eleven,  too,  a  very  important 
appointment!  You  said  I  should  go  downward,  Helen 
— if  I  wasn  't  careful — and  you  were  right !  I  'm  very  far 
down  now — too  low  for  you  to  touch.  Soon  I  shall  be 
as  low  as  one  can  sink — after  eleven  this  morning! 
I'm  no  fit  companion  for  a  bride — a  bride,  ha,  ha!  ha, 
ha !  Go  now,  Helen — go !  go !  and  be  happy,  if  you  can. 
Tell  Theo  I  said  so;  tell  your  Theo— don't  forget.  Tell 
him  you've  seen  Dolly — Dolly  going  downward!" 

She  locked  the  door  in  Helen's  face  and  flung  herself 
on  the  bed  to  stifle  the  mad  screams  that  were  rising  to 
her  lipa. 


XI 

"MARRIED!"  she  gasped,  writhing  convulsively  on  the 
bed.  " Married!— to-day,  to-day!" 

Again  and  again  she  repeated  the  words.  The  blood 
oozed  from  her  deeply  bitten  lips,  staining  the  bed-linen 
which  her  frenzied  hands  were  tearing  to  rags.  Then, 
losing  control  utterly,  she  shrieked  aloud:  "God! 
punish  him,  punish  him !  God !  let  me  die — kill  me ! " 

Nobody  heeded.  The  fourth  floor  was  deserted  at  that 
hour.  Far  below  in  the  basement  the  landlady  and  her 
minion  were  hard  at  work.  No  fellow  creature  heard 
Dolly's  desperate  crying  or  came  to  soothe  and  help. 
She  was  alone  with  her  despair,  realizing  to  the  full  that 
"the  sin  ye  do  by  two  and  two,  ye  pay  for  one  by  one." 

Somehow  she  had  never  realized  exactly  what  his  mar- 
riage would  signify — the  finality  of  it — the  utter  deso- 
lation for  her.  She  had  not  dreamed  it  was  to  be  so 
soon,  and  to-day — to-day  of  all  days ! 

The  time  for  her  appointment  passed,  but  she  took  no 
heed.  Her  hysterical  attack  spent,  she  lay  still,  ex- 
hausted .  .  .  Eleven  o'clock — they  were  being  married 
now!  She  saw  them  at  the  altar — in  the  brougham  re- 
turning from  church — at  the  reception — in  the  train 
going  away — together  .  .  .  Bitterly  she  pictured  the 
look  on  the  bridegroom's  face.  How  thankful  he  would 
be  to  be  safely  married  to  Helen  and  with  his  troubles 
all  behind  him.  He  would  be  flushed,  eager,  radiant — 
with  plenty  to  say  for  himself.  His  path  was  clear  now. 
He  had  won  a  sweet,  devoted  wife,  a  large  income  was 
assured  him,  and  before  him  lay  the  prospect  of  a 
delightful  honeymoon,  the  long  winter  passed  en  joy  ably 
in  Cairo. 

208 


DOWNWARD  200 

"Will  lie  ever  have  to  pay?"  she  thought,  fiercely. 
"Why  does  it  all  fall  on  me?  I  don't  blame  him  for 
anything  but  deserting  me.  I  tempted  him — it  was  more 
than  half  my  fault — oh,  if  only  he  had  stuck  to  me ! 
We  meant  no  harm,  either  of  us,  but  it  has  ruined  me — 
that  hour  of  madness — while  he  rises  from  it  to  a  safer 
and  happier  life.  He  has  everything — love,  wealth,  posi- 
tion, while  I've'  lost  even  the  little  I  had.  I'm  beggared 
and  in  the  dust,  while  he  is  honoured  and  congratulated. 
Is  it  fair  ?  God,  is  it  fair  ? ' ' 

Twelve  o  'clock  struck — they  were  married  now.  Dolly 
was  now  engrossed  with  the  old  torturing  thoughts, 
"What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  What  will  become 
of  me?"  She  told  herself  she  could  not  keep  her  ap- 
pointment now.  Her  courage  was  gone.  It  was  impos- 
sible. And  even  whilst  telling  herself  she  could  never 
do  it,  she  rose  desperately  and  began  to  bathe  her  face 
and  coil  up  her  disordered  hair  preparatory  to  starting 
off  on  that  dreadful  expedition. 

"It's  the  only  thing  —  there's  no  other  help,"  she 
muttered  wearily.  "It's  got  to  be  done." 

But  while  she  dressed — through  the  turmoil  and  mis- 
ery of  her  mind  came  fresh,  piercing  and  insistent  the 
thought  of  her  mother.  It  was  nearly  eleven  years  since 
Valerie  had  died,  but  her  presence  was  vivid  in  that 
squalid  bedroom.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  be  there, 
holding  Dolly  in  her  protecting  arms — encircling  her 
with  mighty  strength. 

Dolly  ceased  to  resist  the  thought  and  let  it  rush  warm 
and  comforting  into  her  mind.  Mother  —  dear,  tender 
mother!  how  sweet  to  feel  her  near  after  all  these 
years  ...  As  in  a  dream,  she  saw  the  little  white  house 
in  Fulham,  the  little  room  where  her  mother  had  come 
night  after  night  to  kiss  her  in  bed — the  garden  plot 
where  they  had  dug  and  planted  together,  "between 
tours" — the  green  seat  among  the  rose-trees,  where,  in 
summer,  they  had  so  many  loving  talks,  so  many  merry 
times  together. 

How  soothing,  how  strangely  peace-giving  it  was,  this 


210  DOWNWARD 

sudden  dream  of  her  childhood.  She  took  off  her  out- 
door things  again  .  .  .  some  impulse  made  her  kneel 
down,  her  weary  head  resting  against  the  bed.  .  .  . 
"Mother — what  a  woman!  And  Dolly,  too,  could  be  a 
mother;  what  was  it  Cliff  had  said — 'it's  one's  own  child 
one  wants — the  child  one  has  suffered  and  anguished 
for.'  " 

A  great  light  seemed  to  flood  her  soul  .  .  .  everything 
was  suddenly  changed.  Inarticulate  prayers  rose  in  her 
heart;  she  found  herself  possessed  with  an  impulse  of 
intense  thankfulness,  of  immeasurable  relief. 

Her  mother  was  with  her,  her  mother's  great  love  had 
saved  her. 

And  while  she  was  thus  on  her  knees  the  great,  golden 
moment  came  to  Dolly — that  wondrous  moment  when 
her  child  quickened  to  life,  and  she  felt  for  the  first  time 
that  strange,  thrilling  stir  of  new  life  within  her — most 
mysterious  and  beautiful  of  all  human  experiences. 

Trembling  and  weeping  for  joy,  the  mother-heart 
cried  aloud  in  her,  and  again  she  lifted  up  her  soul  in 
uttermost  thankfulness  that  she  had  escaped  this  great 
crime  and  preserved  for  herself  this  great  happiness. 
Her  mother's  name  occurred  as  often  in  the  prayers  as 
the  name  of  God,  but  it  was  to  the  Great  Spirit  of  Love 
she  was  pouring  forth  her  gratitude. 

The  difficulties  of  the  future  that  had  seemed  so  in- 
superable were  suddenly  smoothed  out  as  by  sottt*  sagti 
hand.  Everything  was  strangely  simple  now.  Accept 
money?  Yes,  she  would  accept  money  for  her  child 
from  the  father  who  had  wronged  her,  from  the  lover 
who  had  deserted  her,  from  the  friend  she  could  not  pay 
back,  from  any  stranger  who  offered  she  would  accept 
money  now — for  her  child. 

And  if  they  would  not  give  she  would  take  and  take 
again !  For  her  child  she  would  steal,  forge,  lie,  if  need 
be — what  mattered  any  law  that  conflicted  with  her 
child's  welfare?  For  the  life  she  had  helped  to  create 
she  would  commit  any  crime  short  of  destroying  other 
life — for  the  child  all  things  were  possible  to  her. 


DOWNWARD  211 

A  great  elation  seized  her — the  immense,  ineffable 
elation  of  Woman  fulfilling  her  Destiny.  She  felt 
strong,  glad,  invincible.  As  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  her  movement  was  like  a  paean  of  victory.  She 
flung  back  her  head  and  wanted  to  sing  aloud  in  her 
triumph — she  threw  out  her  arms  and  felt  she  was 
clasping  the  world. 

Tender,  joyful  thoughts  glowed  in  her  mind.  "I'm 
going  to  be  a  mother,  a  mother!"  She  repeated  the 
word  over  and  over  again — that  wonderful  word  holding 
joy  and  tears  immeasurable — mother !  Her  arms  were 
going  to  hold  a  little  child — a  child  who  was  flesh  of  her 
flesh.  Little  hands  would  clasp  her,  little  feet  would 
run  stumbling  after  her,  a  baby  voice  would  call  and 
clamour  for  her — she  would  be  the  One,  the  Indispen- 
sable, the  Mother.  Downward?  No,  she  was  not  going 
downward!  From  to-day  she  would  climb  upward,  be 
the  path  ever  so  steep,  and  a  little  child  should  lead 
her.  .  .  .  Upward!  up  ward  1 

What  did  the  man  matter?  She  did  not  need  him 
now.  She  could  fight  for  her  child  alone ;  if  necessary, 
she  could  die  for  it.  But  her  thoughts  went  thankfully 
to  Dacre.  He  would  help  her — he  would  tide  her  over 
this  difficult  time. 

All  ideas  of  the  drawbacks  of  her  position  were  swept 
aside,  now  that  she  had  once  felt  her  child's  faint  stir  of 
life.  No  empress,  married  by  an  archbishop,  in  the  sight 
of  two  continents  could  have  been  more  filled  with  joy 
and  pride  at  presenting  an  heir  to  a  waiting  nation  than 
was  Dolly  at  that  moment — rejoicing  in  a  mean  London 
lodging  over  the  thought  of  her  illegitimate  child.  For 
the  time  being  she  was  Motherhood  Incarnate — she  was 
one  with  the  great  heart  of  Nature.  For  the  time  being 
she  lost  sight  of  everything  except  that  Woman 's  Crown 
was  to  be  hers — that  jewelled  crown  of  thorns,  so  heavy 
and  so  glorious  to  bear. 

Poor  Dolly — poor,  passionate,  beautiful  Dolly  1  She 
needs  your  sufferances,  the  deepest  pity  of  which  you 
ar«  capable.  The  world  cannot  know  her  rapture  nor 


212  DOWNWARD 

guess  her  elation.  To  the  world  her  transcendental  ,30,7 
would  appear  an  impious  mockery.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
world  at  its  kindest  she  is  just  an  erring  woman  about 
to  cumber  the  ground  with  a  nameless  child.  .  .  . 

You  that  are  without  sin,  be  merciful  1    Let  no  one 
e&e  judge  her. 


PAST  IV 


THE  Tillage  of  "Wylton  looked  very  forlorn  in  the 
March  dusk.  The  sixty  or  so  red  and  white  bungalows 
of  which  it  principally  consisted  required  the  sunshine 
to  make  them  look  attractive.  They  were  grouped  un- 
evenly into  half  a  dozen  off-shoots  of  the  main  road, 
straggling  along  the  downs  above  the  prosperous  seaside 
town  of  Skarne.  The  whole  was  ill-planned,  but  it 
looked  charming  enough  in  August  when  all  the  bunga- 
lows were  occupied,  the  windows  filled  with  fluttering 
muslin  curtains  and  the  tiny  gardens  with  bright  sum- 
mer bedding-plants;  when  hammocks  were  hanging  in 
the  diminutive  verandas  and  striped  canvas  chairs  set 
out  on  the  grass  plots.  Now,  however,  with  half  the 
houses  shut  up,  the  gardens  desolate,  and  the  muddy, 
unmade  roads  deeply  furrowed  and  almost  impassable, 
it  was  a  cheerless  spot  in  the  twilight.  Although  Wyl- 
ton owned  four  policemen,  who  never  by  any  chance 
were  to  be  seen,  as  yet  it  did  not  possess  a  single  lamp- 
post. After  dark  such  of  its  inhabitants  as  chose  to  be 
abroad  had  to  rely  on  the  moonlight  for  their  guidance. 
The  roads  were  grandiloquently  named  Lancaster  Drive, 
Burlington  Gardens,  Sandringham  Avenue,  etc.,  and 
the  sixty  bungalows,  going  to  the  other  extreme  of 
nomenclature,  shared  among  them  half  a  dozen  such 
titles  as  "The  Hut,"  "The  Nest,"  "The  Haven,"  "The 
Nook,"  etc.,  etc.  In  addition  there  were  four  "Mas- 
cottes,"  three  "Sans  Souci"  and,  of  course,  the  inevi- 
table "Clovelly"  and  "Rosebank,"  without  which  no 
respectable  residential  quarter  could  possibly  be 
complete. 

213 


DOWNWARD 

A  little  Yray  from  the  cliff  edge,  where  the  end  of 
Sandringham  Avenue  met  the  Downs,  stood  a  bungalow 
apart  from  the  rest  which  was  occupied  all  the  year 
round.  It  was  somewhat  larger  and  certainly  more 
decorative  than  the  others;  on  the  small  white  gate  was 
painted  the  name  "The  House  of  Good  Hope."  The 
garden,  enclosed  by  a  low  fence  of  rough  posts  with  the 
bark  on,  was  comparatively  large  and  bore  signs  of 
careful  tending. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  in  March  the  stillness  of 
the  road  where  not  a  soul  seemed  stirring  was  suddenly 
broken.  The  front  door  of  "Good  Hope"  burst  open 
and  out  rushed  a  stout,  red-faced,  panting  woman. 
With  her  holland  skirts  held  high,  disclosing  two  feet 
of  extraordinarily  generous  proportions,  cased  in  felt 
boots,  pell-mell  over  the  lumpy  clay  furrows  she  rushed 
and  stopped  at  a  small  villa  half-way  down  the  road,  the 
windows  of  which  were  decorated  with  a  profusion  of 
cards  bearing  the  word  "Apartments." 

"Dr.  Jocelyn!  Dr.  Jocelyn!"  cried  the  panting 
woman.  "Oh,  please  come  quickly,  sir;  the  boy's  in  the 
convulsions — Mrs.  Faithfull's  boy,  Keddy!" 

The  young  man  she  addressed  had  just  deposited  a 
bundle  of  golf-sticks  in  the  corner  of  the  veranda  and 
was  preparing  to  take  off  his  muddy  boots  before  enter- 
ing his  small  sitting-room  through  the  open  French 
window.  At  her  call  he  rushed  across  the  square  of 
grass  which  constituted  the  villa's  front  garden  and 
ran  down  the  muddy  road  at  top  speed.  Vaulting  the 
fence,  he  tore  across  the  lawn  of  "Good  Hope"  and  into 
the  house,  scattering  lumps  of  clay  right  and  left. 

The  woman  followed  as  quickly  as  her  shortness  of 
breath  would  allow.  "In  the  bathroom,"  she  called 
after  him,  with  mighty  puffings,  as  she  halted  for  a 
necessary  second  at  the  little  gate,  her  hand  on  her  over- 
taxed heart. 

Jocelyn  flung  off  his  coat  and  turned  up  his  shirt- 
sleeves as  he  hastened  across  the  square  lounge-hall  of 


DOWNWARD  215 

the  bungalow  to  an  open  door  from  which  clouds  of 
steam  were  issuing. 

Bending  over  the  bath,  her  face  flushed,  her  lips 
tightly  set,  Dolly  was  supporting  her  boy  in  the  water. 
His  little  face  was  deadly  pale ;  his  head  lay  against  her 
arm,  the  soft  hair  clinging  to  his  brow  damp  from  the 
steam.  His  lips  were  blue,  his  body  convulsed  with  the 
horrible  tremors. 

"Arthur!  for  God's  sake!"  gasped  Dolly,  "is  this 
right?  It  came  on  so  suddenly " 

"Quite  right.  Put  something  between  his  teeth — a 
cork  is  best — and  get  brandy.  I'll  hold  him." 

"Brandy!    I've  none." 

"I  have — tantalus  on  the  sideboard.  You  run  and 
get  it ;  I  can  rub  him  better. ' '  He  proceeded  to  rub  the 
child's  chest  and  limbs  scientifically.  "I  wish  I'd 
known  this  was  coming,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Aha, 
that's  better,  that's  better" — as  the  stiffened  limbs  re- 
laxed a  little.  "Good  man  he  is,  a  good  Keddy-man. 
He's  answering  to  the  treatment,  you  see,"  he  called 
over  his  shoulder  as  Dolly  rushed  in  with  the  brandy. 
"It's  all  right;  the  worst's  over,  and  the  brandy  will 
finish  it.  Now,  then,  a  hot  blanket,  please.  That's  it — 
capital!  There's  nothing  more  to  fear  now.  ..." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  the  child  in  bed,  wrapped 
in  warm  blankets.  Without  a  word,  he  went  quietly  off 
into  a  doze.  It  was  barely  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since 
the  seizure,  but  Dolly  was  white  and  trembling  from  the 
shock. 

"That  was  smartly  done — very!"  said  Jocelyn.  "But 
of  course  you've  been  a  nurse,  haven't  you?  You  must 
have  got  him  in  the  bath  almost  at  once." 

"We  did.  Thank  God  there's  always  hot  water  in 
this  blessed  little  boiler,  and  Elizabeth  had  the  blankets 
to  the  fire  and  was  off  for  you  in  a  flash." 

"I'd  no  idea  the  dame  could  flash  at  afl,  but  she 
certainly  did." 

"Bless  her  dear,  loyal  heart — she  adores  Keddy;  and 
bless  you  too,  Arthur ;  you  have  been  a 


216  DOWNWARD 

That  grateful  glance  of  Dolly's  made  the  man  give 
silent  thanks  for  the  lucky  chance  that  had  enabled  him 
to  he  of  use  to  this  beautiful  woman  in  her  hour  of  need. 

"I'm  thankful  I  was  handy,  that's  all.  I'd  just  come 
in  from  the  links.  Now  I'm  going  to  prescribe  for  you 
both,  if  I  may." 

"Please  do;  it's  awfully  good  of  you." 

"Keddy  will  be  going  on  nicely  now.  "Watch  for  a 
rise  of  temperature,  though,  and  don't  give  him  any- 
thing but  milk.  And  Keddy's  mother  is  to  lie  down 
and  rest  for  a  bit.  I'll  cycle  into  Skarne  now  and  get 
two  prescriptions  made  up — oh,  yes,  you're  to  have 
some  bromide.  Why,  you're  all  to  pieces!  You'll  be 
knocked  up  to-morrow  from  the  shock!" 

Tears  came  into  Dolly's  eyes.  "It's  very  nice  of  you, 
Arthur,"  she  faltered.  "I  hate  to  give  you  the  trouble 
when  you  must  be  tired  after  a  long  day's  golf — you 
don 't  want  to  be  bothered  with  patients  on  your  holiday. 
The  wind  is  ghastly,  too,  and  the  road's  like  a  ploughed 
field  some  of  the  way.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  Keddy,  I 
wouldn't  let  you  go." 

"Indeed,  wouldn't  you?  Well,  I'm  going,  anyway, 
for  Keddy's  sake,  not  to  mention  Keddy's  mother!  I'll 
come  round  again  before  turning  in  just  to  see  how  he 
is.  By  the  way,  those  back  teeth  of  his  you  were  telling 
me  about  must  be  pretty  fierce  things.  I  've  never  known 
a  child  of  that  age  have  convulsions  before.  He's  four, 
isn't  he?" 

"Four  in  April,"  said  the  mother,  softly.  When 
Jocelyn  had  gone  she  stood  for  some  minutes  by  the  side 
of  the  cot  gazing  at  her  son. 

"My  precious  baby!"  she  murmured,  "mother's  own 
beautiful  Brown  Bird!  Thank  God,  you're  safe;  I 
couldn't  live  without  my  Keddy!" 

She  lay  down  on  her  own  bed,  and,  passing  her  hand 
through  the  bars  of  the  cot,  took  the  child's  little  hand 
in  hers.  In  a  few  minutes  she,  too,  had  dozed  off,  and, 
after  all,  it  was  old  Elizabeth  who  did  the  watching. 


ABOUT  ten  o'clock  that  night  Arthur  Jocelyn  tapped 
softly  at  Dolly's  door.  She  opened  it  herself,  hushing 
him  to  silence  with  upraised  finger  as  he  came  into  the 
halL 

"Ked's  sound  asleep,"  she  whispered.  "His  pulse  is 
good  and  temperature  only  ninety-nine  point  six.  Eliza- 
beth's  asleep,  too,  and  I'm  as  right  as  rain.  I've  had  a 
splendid  rest,  and  the  priceless  old  dame  has  looked 
after  us  both.  Now  it's  my  turn;  I'm  going  to  sit  up 
with  Keddy." 

"Then  so  am  I!"  announced  Jocelyn. 

"Indeed  you're  not.     Think  of  the  neighbours!" 

"We  will  think  of  them  if  you  like.  We'll  think  of 
them  all  night,  though  I  confess  it  seems  a  waste  of  time. 
But  I'm  going  to  sit  up  with  you,  for  all  that." 

"Think  of  the  noise  you'll  make  and  the  oxygen  you'll 
consume  which  my  boy  ought  to  have!" 

"Madame,  I'm  a  medical  man.  I  don't  propose  to 
make  a  noise  or  consume  any  of  your  boy 's  oxygen ;  I  'm 
going  to  spend  the  night  sitting  in  this  delightful  lounge, 
in  that  very  artistic  chintz-covered  chair  before  a 
roaring  fire!" 

"Who's  going  to  make  it  roar?  I've  just  been  poking 
it  out!" 

"I'll  make  it  roar  in  two  minutes.  No  woman  can 
build  a  fire !  All  you  've  got  to  do  is  to  sit  opposite  me 
in  that  other  artistic  chintz-covered  chair." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  and  if  the  boy  so  much  as  blinks  you'll  be  able 
to  hear  him.  When  I  've  inspected  my  patient  and  made 
the  fire  roar,  I  shall  fetch  whisky  and  cigars  from  my 
217 


218  DOWNWARD 

own  mansion  and  we'll  settle  down  to  a  gorgeous  quack- 
quack.  In  the  small  hours,  perhaps,  111  make  some 
coffee.  Now,  doesn't  that  sound  much  jollier  than  your 
sitting  here  all  alone,  yawning  and  starting  at  every 
crack  ? ' ' 

"Well,  it  has  its  points,  I'll  admit." 

"Good!  You  reflect  on  those  points,  while  I  fetch 
in  some  logs  of  wood.  ...  I  say,  before  I  forget,  I  met 
the  man  you  call  the  Norse  King  on  the  links  to-day,  and 
when  I'd  got  close  to  him  I  discovered  an  old  friend — 
Godwin  Leigh." 

"Really?    How  nice!    I  do  want  to  know  him." 

"He  was  at  Cambridge  with  me,  and  we  shared  digs 
for  a  time  when  I  was  a  student.  He's  a  tremendously 
good  sort,  though  rather  strait-laced.  Goes  in  for  char- 
ity organization  and  good  works.  And  I've  another 
piece  of  news  for  you ;  that  large  old  house  on  the  main 
road  is  let  for  three  months." 

"Do  you  mean  the  Square  House?" 

"That's  it.  The  tenants  are  coming  in  to-morrow. 
Musical  people,  apparently — at  least  I  hear  a  'cello  and 
two  violins  were  among  the  luggage  to-day,  and  a  special 
piano  has  been  sent  down  from  Bechstein's." 

"That  sounds  promising.  I  hope  they'll  entertain. 
Are  there  any  children  for  Keddy  to  play  with?" 

"No,  there  are  only  the  man  and  his  wife,  and  she's 
an  invalid,  Miss  Sapper  told  me." 

"Of  course  Miss  Sapper  would  know!  Then  I  sup- 
pose they  won't  be  entertaining.  What  an  odd  time  of 
the  year  to  come.  March  is  the  worst  month  here." 

"Ah,  well!  you  and  I  are  making  the  place  fashion- 
able," said  the  young  man  with  a  grin.  "Now  to  face 
the  blast  once  more — your  wood-shed  is  at  the  back, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  and  there's  a  lantern  in  the  porch;  you'd 
better  take  it,  as  it's  pitch  dark." 

....**» 

Left  alone,  Dolly  busied  herself  fetching  cushions  and 


DOWNWARD  219 

arranging  matches,  ash-tray,  siphon  and  tumbler  on  a 
little  table  between  the  two  chairs  which  flanked  the 
hearth.  She  next  got  out  her  coffee-machine  and  cups 
and  placed  them  handy  on  a  tray.  Her  eyes  sparkled  a 
little:  how  horrified  the  neighbours  would  be  if  they 
knew !  And  Jocelyn  was  certainly  very  good  company ; 
he  was  about  her  own  age,  an  amusing  talker  and  always 
gay  and  light-hearted.  He  had  come  to  Wylton  at 
Xmas,  a  casual  visitor,  to  recruit  from  a  bad  breakdown, 
consequent  on  over-work  during  an  epidemic  of  typhoid 
in  the  East  End  quarter  where  he  practised.  She  re- 
called the  succession  of  dreary  winters  since  she  had 
settled  in  Wylton  four  years  ago — how  quickly  these 
last  few  months  had  sped  by  contrast. 

Jocelyn  had  first  made  her  acquaintance  by  running 
after  Keddy's  hat  one  stormy  day  on  the  cliff.  They  had 
been  formally  introduced  shortly  afterwards  at  the  house 
of  the  Vicar  of  Skarne,  and  as  everybody  at  Wylton 
soon  got  to  know  one  another  well,  they  quickly  became 
constant  companions.  He  had  taken  Dolly  to  the  links 
with  him,  and  though  her  golf  progressed  very  slowly, 
they  had  had  many  cheery  hours  there  together.  The 
books  he  had  lent  her  and  the  talks  they  had  had  together 
had  stimulated  her  intellect;  mental  fare  was  somewhat 
meagre  at  Wylton.  But,  above  all,  it  was  the  masculine 
companionship  that  had  cheered  and  brightened  her. 
She  had  thriven  on  the  stimulus  of  a  man's  homage  and 
a  man's  admiration,  both  so  necessary  to  a  woman  of 
her  calibre. 

At  thirty  Dolly  was  in  the  height  of  her  beauty.  Her 
figure  had  eventually  gained  by  maternity,  rather  than 
lost,  as  is  generally  the  case.  Deep-bosomed,  slender- 
waisted,  her  neck  rose  from  her  shoulders  truly  like  a 
tower  of  ivory,  and  she  had  still  the  carriage  of  a  mythi- 
cal queen.  She  had  kept  her  fair,  girlish  complexion, 
too,  and  the  grief  she  had  gone  through  only  showed  in 
her  deep  blue  eyes,  giving  them  perhaps  an  added  mys- 
tery and  charm.  Preparatory  to  her  vigil,  with  a  view 
to  added  comfort,  she  had  taken  down  her  heavy  hair, 


220  DOWNWARD 

and  it  now  hung  in  a  plait  down  her  back,  a  seductive 
rope  of  gold  reaching  to  her  knees.  She  had  changed 
her  short  tweed  skirt  and  blouse,  the  only  possible  cos- 
tume in  which  to  brave  the  Wylton  roads  in  winter,  and 
now  wore  a  pale  blue  tea-gown,  all  frills  and  laces,  which 
revealed  her  beautiful  throat. 

Jocelyn  gazed  at  her  admiringly  as  they  stood  to- 
gether for  a  few  minutes  by  Keddy's  cot;  Dolly  was 
looking  at  her  boy  with  a  lovely  expression  in  her  eyes. 
The  domesticity  of  the  scene,  and  his  part  in  it,  dis- 
turbed the  bachelor.  He  had  no  wish  to  marry,  but  he 
coveted  this  desirable  woman  and  the  form  of  the  beauti- 
ful, sleeping  child  symbolized  all  that  he  had  so  far 
missed  in  his  life. 

In  truth,  Keddy  was  a  boy  any  man  might  be  proud 
to  have  fathered.  The  perfect  oval  of  his  face,  the  deli- 
cately cut  features,  the  curve  of  his  sweet,  childish 
mouth,  composed  a  whole  unusually  pretty  for  a  boy  of 
his  age.  From  his  well-shaped,  white  brow  the  luxuri- 
ant dark  hair  was  flung  back  in  a  tangle  on  the  pillow. 
His  extraordinarily  long  black  lashes  lay  upon  his 
cheeks,  and  beneath  the  shut  white  lids  were  large,  won- 
derful eyes,  deep  blue  like  his  mother's,  but  full  of  that 
exquisite  serenity  that  sometimes  gives  an  unearthly 
beauty  to  childhood. 

"When  his  eyes  are  shut  he  doesn't  look  a  bit  like 
you,"  Jocelyn  remarked. 

"No,  he's  not  like  me,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  sigh. 

The  lounge  made  a  charming  room  at  night  when  all 
the  doors  which  opened  on  to  it  were  shut.  Curtains  of 
soft  turquoise  blue  were  drawn  across  the  lattice  win- 
dows, and  a  heavier  curtain  of  a  similar  colour  shut  off 
the  outer  porch.  Below  a  brilliant  rose-wreath  frieze 
the  walls  were  hung  with  plain  white  paper,  which  gave 
an  impression  of  space  to  the  room,  and  all  the  wood- 
work was  painted  white.  The  floor  was  carpeted  in  a 
shade  of  turquoise  blue,  and  the  light  chintz  covers  of 
the  chairs  repeated  the  note  of  roses  in  the  frieze.  On 
an  oak  table  in  the  centre  books  and  papers  were  piled 


DOWNWARD  221 

in  untidy  luxuriance,  and  Dolly's  golf -clubs  stacked  in 
a  corner  gave  a  homelike,  masculine  touch  to  the  whole. 
Over  the  hearth,  which  was  a  reproduction  of  an  old- 
fashioned  open  grate,  a  motto  was  carved  in  the  stone- 
work, "Each  Man's  Chimney  is  His  Golden  Milestone," 
and  above  this  hung  a  life-size  sepia  head  of  Dacre 
Hamilton. 

Jocelyn  sighed  as  he  looked  contentedly  around  and 
settled  himself  in  his  easy  chair.  Both  in  his  somewhat 
rackety  student  days  and  his  more  decorous  existence 
of  the  last  three  years  he  had  many  times  congratulated 
himself  on  his  freedom ;  but  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
adult  life,  the  idea  of  a  home  seemed  attractive  to  him. 

Having  lit  a  night-light  in  Keddy's  room  and  set  the 
door  open,  Dolly  sat  down  in  the  other  big  chair  opposite 
Jocelyn. 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"You  certainly  can  make  fires,  Arthur,  I'll  admit. 
And  it's  rather  jolly  to  be  sitting  here  so  cosily  with  the 
wind  howling  outside  as  it  is.  Why,  you've  slippers  on, 
too;  how  domesticated!" 

"I  brought  them  over  with  the  whisky;  my  boots  are 
in  the  porch  with  half  an  acre  of  good  Kentish  soil  stick- 
ing to  each.  Quite  domesticated,  as  you  say — me  in 
slippers  and  you  with  your  hair  down." 

"I'd  quite  forgotten,"  murmured  Dolly,  with  a  shade 
of  embarrassment. 

"I'm  glad  you  did.  What  ripping  hair  you've  got, 
Dolly!" 

"Mrs.  Faithfull,  please,"  said  Dolly,  trying  to  look 
severe.  "You  begged  me  to  call  you  Arthur  and  I 
agreed,  as  we  were  good  friends  and  formality  doesn't 
come  natural  to  me,  but " 

"Formality  doesn't  come  natural  to  me,  either;  I'm 
the  soul  of  informality,  and  to-night,  madam,  I  'm  going 
to  call  you  Dolly,  if  only  to  get  the  proper  intimate 
atmosphere  for  our  quack-quack." 

1 '  Very  well,  then,  because  you  were  so  good  this  after- 
noon, and  for  to-night  only,  mind.  How  scandalized  our 


222  DOWNWARD 

dear  friends,  Mrs.  Merton  and  Mrs.  Redwood  and  Miss 
Sapper,  would  be  if  they  could  see  us!" 

"Oh,  come!  Surely  even  those  prize  tabbies  could 
find  no  fault  in  such  an  innocent  proceeding  as  this  ? ' ' 

"My  dear  Arthur,  you  don't  know  them!  Even 
though  you  were  brought  up  in  a  provincial  town,  you 
have  no  conception  of  the  evil  imaginations  possessed 
by  the  elderly  female  residents  of  a  seaside  village — to 
say  nothing  of  their  extraordinary  aptitude  for  gossip. 
Why,  when  my  old  friend,  Dacre  Hamilton,  comes  down 
to  see  us,  I  daren't  even  let  him  sleep  in  the  house, 
although  I've  a  sweet  little  spare  room  here." 

"Do  you  put  the  poor  chap  in  the  wood-shed?" 

"No,  not  quite  that,  but  he  has  to  turn  out  at  night 
and  take  a  wretched  room  at  old  Mrs.  Wilder 's,  ever  so 
far  down  the  cliff,  as  your  landlady  is  the  only  apart- 
ment letter  here,  and  she  always  goes  in  for  what  she 
calls  'long  lets.'  It  enrages  me  so — at  first  I  wouldn't 
hear  of  it,  but  Dacre  insisted.  He  said  I  should  have  no 
character  left  otherwise,  and  when  I  got  to  know  the 
women  here  I  saw  he  was  right. ' ' 

"Odd,  isn't  it,  that  people  should  be  like  that  after 
nearly  two  thousand  years  of  Christianity?  That's 
your  friend  up  there,  isn't  it?"  He  indicated  the 
portrait  of  Dacre  over  the  hearth. 

"Yes,  the  most  wonderful  friend  woman  ever  had!" 

"Humph!  any  one  would  be  glad  to  be  your  friend, 
Dolly,"  said  Jocelyn,  jealously.  "Any  one  would  be 
glad  to  serve  a  pretty  woman  like  you  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  it." 

"Well,  I've  not  found  men  so  disinterested,"  said 
Dolly,  bitterly.  "Dacre  is  one  in  a  million." 

"What  has  he  ever  done  that's  so  wonderful?" 

"He's  done  everything;  he's  been  mother  and  father, 
counsellor,  guide  and  friend.  I  could  never  tell  you  all 
he's  done.  He  practically  saved  my  life  and  Keddy's 
life.  He  brought  me  through  the  blackest  time  a  woman 
could  ever  know.  If  you  knew  all  he 's  done ! ' ' 

"Tell   me   your  story,   Dolly,"   said   the   man,   per- 


DOWNWARD  223 

raasively,  "you  promised  you  would  some  day,  and  a 
night  sitting  like  this  is  the  very  time  for  confidences. 
Although  we  've  been  such  friends  since  we  met,  and  I  've 
told  you  all  about  my  life  and  all  my  love  affairs  and 
scrapes,  yet  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  you,  except 
that  you  were  once  a  nurse  and  you've  not  been 
married. ' ' 

' '  Hush ! ' ' — Dolly  flashed  an  uneasy  glance  round — 
"if  any  one  should  hear  you!" 

"Who  on  earth  could  hear?" 

"I  was  a  fool  to  tell  you — whatever  made  me  do  it?" 

"My  dear,  don't  you  know  women  always  tell. that 
kind  of  secret?  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the 
elderly  lady  who  once  went  to  a  priest  and  confessed 
that  she'd  made  a  slip?  'Surely  this  was  not  recent, 
my  daughter?'  said  the  priest.  'Oh,  no,'  answered  the 
penitent,  'it  was  twenty  years  ago,  but  I  do  so  love 
talking  about  it ! '  ' 

A  smile  trembled  on  Dolly's  lips,  but  was  sternly 
suppressed.  '  *  Well,  I  'm  not  like  that, ' '  she  said.  ' '  God 
knows  I  want  to  forget  it,  if  I  can;  but  I've  never  been 
good  at  keeping  secrets  of  any  kind.  I  always  was 
dreadfully  unreserved  and  age  hasn't  taught  me  wis- 
dom. But  it's  so  vital  that  this  one  should  be  kept  for 
the  boy's  sake,  though  I  mean  to  tell  him,  of  course." 

' '  Do  you  really  ?    That 's  interesting. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  ought  to  know  from  the  beginning;  it  would 
be  a  shock  to  hear  it  suddenly  when  he's  grown-up. 
And  so  many  people  know.  It  all  came  out  at  the 
nursing  home  where  I  worked.  But,  oh !  I  hope  nobody 
will  be  so  cruel  as  to  punish  my  Keddy  for  his  parents' 
fault." 

"Don't  worry,  little  woman;  it'll  all  be  forgotten  by 
the  time  he's  a  man.  It  isn't  likely  he'll  run  across  any 
of  those  people  who  knew  you.  I  suppose  you've  taken 
another  name  on  his  account?" 

' '  Oh,  yes,  my  own  maiden  name  was  altered  by  formal 
deed-poll  enrolled  in  Chancery — that's  what  Dacre 
called  it.  Of  course  he  arranged  it  for  me,  and  it  was 


DOWNWARD 

all  done  on  the  boy's  account.  And  I  often  tell  myself 
that  no  one  can  prove  I  'm  not  really  a  widow,  especially 
if  I  eventually  do  marry." 

"Of  course  they  can't.  Nothing  is  likely  to  turn  up 
to  upset  your  boy.  That's  why  I  think  it's  a  pity  to 
tell  him  when  he  need  never  know." 

"Oh,  but  it  would  be  wrong  to  build  his  life  upon  a 
lie,  when  the  truth  might  come  out  at  any  time.  He 
must  know  everything  from  the  first.  I've  begun  al- 
ready ;  when  he  asked  me  why  he  had  no  daddy,  I  told 
him  his  daddy  was  very  cruel  to  mother  and  had  never 
seen  him  and  never  would  see  him." 

"And  what  did  the  little  chap  say?" 

Dolly's  face  lit  up.  "The  darling  said,  'If  I'd  been 
there  when  he  was  cruel  to  mumma  I  'd  have  thrown  him 
over  the  cliff!'" 

"Good  chap!    'Stout  fella!'  " 

"I  feel  sure  it's  best  to  tell  children  the  truth  about 
everything ;  the  truth  is  so  much  simpler  than  anything 
we  can  invent.  When  he  grows  up  he'll  understand  all 
I  have  suffered  for  him,  how  I  was  tempted,  how  bitterly 
I  have  been  punished,  and  I  feel  sure  it  won't  cause  him 
to  be  ashamed  of  me,  but  rather  make  him  very  gentle 
and  kind  to  the  women  who  come  into  his  life.  No 
woman  will  ever  be  the  worse  for  my  son,  I  feel  sure, 
for  he  will  have  learned  the  woman's  side  of  things  from 
his  mother." 

"Well,  can't  you  teach  him  that  without  letting  him 
know  he's  illegitimate?" 

' '  No,  it  would  be  merely  talk  unless  I  could  point  the 
argument  with  my  own  case,  Avritten  in  blood  and  tears. 
Besides,  I  hope  he'll  have  too  much  sound  common  sense 
for  the  word  illegitimate  to  be  a  bogey  to  him.  It's  only 
a  word,  after  all." 

"A  word  that  has  the  power  to  wreck  lives." 

"The  more  shame  to  those  who  give  it  such  a  power! 
Why,  just  think  a  minute — how  absurd  it  is  to  say  that 
the  existence  of  any  human  being  is  idegall  And  all 
this  sentimental  nonsense  about  the  value  of  a  father's 


DOWNWARD  225 

name,  as  if  one  parent's  name  were  any  better  than 
another's!  In  a  properly  conducted  world  all  children 
would  bear  the  mother's  name,  as  they  used  to  when  the 
world  was  younger  and  simpler." 

"Oh,  come,  Dolly;  that  would  really  be  going  too 
far." 

' '  Too  far  ?  Oh,  how  funny  you  illogical  men  are  over 
the  foolish  laws  you've  made  for  yourselves  and  us! 
Doesn't  a  mother  do  more  for  the  children  than  a 
father?  Isn't  it  right  that  she  should  give  her  name  to 
the  child  whom  she  carries  for  nine  months — to  whom, 
in  convulsions  of  agony,  she  gives  life  at  the  risk  of  her 
own,  and  in  the  majority  of  cases  nourishes  it  after- 
wards at  the  price  of  her  strength  for  nearly  a  year,  not 
to  mention  her  love  and  service  during  childhood?  It's 
such  obvious  common  sense  that  all  children  should  bear 
the  mother's  name,  only,  of  course,  men  can't  see  it." 

"Well,  I  hope  all  will  turn  out  as  you  expect  and  that 
Keddy  won't  mind,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"Why  should  he  mind,  so  long  as  nobody  turns  it  up 
against  him?  I  never  did."  She  checked  herself 
sharply;  for  a  minute  her  eyes  fell  before  the  man's 
curious  glance  and  raised,  questioning  eyebrows.  Then 
she  met  his  surprised  look  boldly. 

"You  see,  I'm  not  very  good  at  keeping  secrets,"  she 
said. 

Jocelyn  bent  forward  eagerly.  "But  it  is  a  relief  to 
speak  out  sometimes,  isn't  it? — to  open  the  locked  door 
and  look  into  the  secret  chamber  and  ease  one's  heart? 
You  interest  me  tremendously!  Tell  me  your  story, 
Dolly,  and  the  howling  of  the  wind  will  make  a  fitting 
accompaniment.  Confess  it  will  be  a  relief  to  talk  freely 
to  a  sympathetic  listener,  since  you  haven't  seen  your 
guide  and  philosopher  for  three  months!" 

"What  a  devil  you  are,  Arthur  —  you  understand 
women  so  uncannily  well!  You're  right,  it  is  some- 
times a  relief  to  talk  freely.  Often  I  long  to  suddenly 
burst  out  the  truth  to  the  good  ladies  of  Wylton  when 
we're  gathered  together  for  one  of  those  excruciating 


226  DOWNWARD 

tea-parties  which  they  revel  in.  I  listen  to  their  eternal 
conversation  about  the  drains,  the  iniquity  of  the  Skarne 
Town  Council,  the  achievements  of  the  rival  sets  of 
chickens,  and  I  long  to  cast  a  thunderbolt  in  their  midst 
and  give  them  something  to  get  really  excited  about. 
How  it  would  horrify  and  delight  them !  They  all  ad- 
mire me,  you  know — think  it  so  sad  that  a  nice-looking 
young  woman  should  be  left  alone  so  early  in  life,  such 
a  devoted  mother,  too,  and  so  on.  And  since  Dacre  went 
abroad  for  a  long  holiday — the  first  he's  had  for  years — 
I've  missed  my  confidant  so  much;  I'm  quite  afraid  I 
shall  break  out  badly  soon." 

' '  Break  out  now,  then ;  it  '11  do  you  good,  and  with  me 
your  secret  is  buried  in  a  grave.  You  know  that,  don't 
you?"  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  and  Dolly  took  it 
gratefully. 

"You've  been  a  great  help  to  me  since  you  came, 
Arthur.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne  this  last  win- 
ter with  Dacre  abroad  but  for  you,  and  you  were  very 
good  this  afternoon." 

Jocelyn  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  ''Dear  little 
woman,"  he  murmured,  "I'd  do  anything  for  you." 


Ill 

THERE-,  was  a  short  pause.  Dolly's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  glowing  fire. 

"My  mother  was  a  clergyman's  daughter/'  she  began, 
"the  kind  of  clergyman  whose  children  run  away  from 
home.  They're  exceptional,  fortunately.  Mother  left 
the  parental  rectory  when  she  was  seventeen  and  went 
on  the  stage.  She  must  have  had  an  awful  struggle,  but 
I  don't  know  much  about  it.  My  father  is  still  alive; 
he's  a  well-known  specialist — quite  possibly  he's  been 
one  of  your  examiners.  You'd  be  surprised  if  I  were  to 
name  him,  but  I  don't  mean  to.  They  both  came  of 
good  county  families  and  so  did  Keddy's  father.  My 
boy  has  good  blood  in  his  veins  and  good  brains  behind 
him.  Neither  of  his  parents  are  particularly  clever,  but 
his  grand-parents  were  really  a  most  distinguished  quar- 
tette— an  eminent  doctor,  an  equally  eminent  barrister, 
an  artist  who  made  a  name  for  herself,  and  an  actress 
of  great  talents.  He  won't  be  able  to  brag  about  them, 
but  they  are  there.  My  boy  ought  to  achieve ;  he  '11  have 
brains  and  imagination  and  passion  and  artistic  talents 
— if  only  the  passion  doesn't  wreck  all! — both  his  grand- 
fathers were  devils  ..." 

"I  know  Keds  is  an  awfully  fine  chap  and  is  going  to 
knock  a  hole  in  the  sky,  and  it's  awfully  interesting,  but 
I  want  to  hear  about  you,  Dolly." 

"Forgive  me,  I'm  a  bore,  I  know — I'm  so  afflicted  with 
'maternitis' !  Well,  to  continue :  My  parents  were  never 
married,  as  I  've  just  let  out  to  you,  and  my  father  broke 
mother's  heart.  I  won't  go  further  into  their  story,  as 
it  would  take  too  long.  I  was  fifteen  when  mother  died. 
Mr.  Hamilton  was  my  father's  solicitor  and  acted  as  my 
227 


228  DOWNWARD 

guardian.  He  looked  after  me,  and  my  father,  acting 
through  him,  sent  me  to  school  and  then  forced  me  to  be 
a  nurse.  My  ambition  was  the  stage.  I  had  a  flair  for 
the  footlights,  and  oh,  Arthur,  I  could  dance  divinely ! 
That's  been  a  great  blow  to  me — I've  been  done  out  of 
the  career  in  which  I  could  have  excelled — I've  minded 
that  bitterly  .  .  . 

"But  I  was  happy  in  a  way,  and  I  saw  life  of  a  sort 
and  many  men  loved  me.  I  thought  it  dull,  and  rebelled 
against  the  routine  frantically,  but  it  was  a  vortex  of 
wild  gaiety  compared  with  the  existence  I've  led  here. 
At  the  nursing  home  I  had  two  special  friends — one  was 
Mary  Clifford,  whom  you  have  met." 

"A  good  sort,  Miss  Clifford." 

"The  very  best.  The  other  was— I'll  call  her  Helen. 
She  was  engaged  to  a  boy  whose  mother  afterwards  be- 
came my  patient  at  the  nursing  home,  and  he  ...  he  is 
the  father  of  my  Keddy." 

Dolly's  voice  faltered.  She  had  slipped  to  the  ground 
while  telling  her  story  and  was  now  seated  curled  up  on 
the  hearth-rug.  Her  great  eyes  were  shining  and  a  red 
spot  burned  on  each  cheek.  She  looked  very  young, 
with  her  white,  round  throat  bare  and  the  plait  of  hair 
hanging  over  one  shoulder. 

Jocelyn,  who  was  deeply  interested  and  excited,  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  hers.  He  was  holding  her  hands  in  his 
and  he  stroked  them  gently  now,  saying  in  a  low  voice : 

' '  Poor  little  Dolly !    Go  on,  dear. ' ' 

"It  sounds  bad,  doesn't  it?  It  sounds  vile  and  hor- 
rible, the  betrothed  of  my  friend!  It's  difficult  to  ex- 
plain, even  to  myself.  Helen  was  away,  and  he  came 
every  day  to  see  his  mother — really  to  see  me — and  he 
got  into  my  thoughts  somehow,  and  into  my  blood  .  .  . 
and  into  my  heart.  At  first  I  tempted  and  led  him  on, 
but  afterwards  I  tried  hard  to  throw  off  his  spell — that's 
what  it  was,  a  spell  that  held  us  both !  And  he  tried, 
too,  but — it  was  written !  Can  you  understand  ?  I  was 
so  tired  of  the  hard,  joyless  life,  the  squabblings  and 
pettinesses  of  a  lot  of  women  shut  up  together,  the  dead- 


DOWNWARD  229 

cning  influence  of  the  sick-room  from  which  we  could 
never  escape  for  more  than  a  few  hours.  I  was  .young, 
and  I  longed  for  beauty  and  colour  and  gaiety ;  I  craved 
for  love  and  joy.  Theo  represented  all  this  for  me.  He 
was  so  handsome,  too ;  Keddy  is  just  like  him — the  same 
well-cut  features  and  fine  brow.  Keddy 's  dark  hair  is 
just  like  his.  and  grows  round  the  forehead  just  as  his 
did.  Sometimes  the  past  comes  back  so  vividly,  I 
shudder  when  I  run  my  fingers  through  the  boy's 
hair  .  .  ." 

"But  he  has  your  eyes,"  said  Jocelyn,  who  had  been 
moving  uneasily  in  his  chair.  These  rhapsodies  over 
another  man 's  looks  were  little  to  his  taste. 

"Yes,  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  couldn't  bear  to  have 
Theo's  eyes  always  looking  at  me.  They  were  such 
strange,  beautiful " 

"Oh,  don't  think  about  his  eyes,"  groaned  the  man, 
involuntarily,  crushing  her  hands  in  his.  "Tell  me  the 
rest." 

"There's  not  much  more  to  tell.  He  had  lovely  rooms, 
and  he  made  me  come  there.  We  had  such  talks  ...  he 
was  the  most  wonderful  lover." 

' '  Oh,  damn ! ' '  murmured  Jocelyn,  once  more  writhing 
in  his  chair. 

"I  only  went  twice,  once  to  tea  ...  and  one  fatal 
time  to  dinner.  He  played  Beethoven's  Sonata  Apas- 
sionata,  and  then  he  sang " 

"So  that's  why  you  wouldn't  stay  for  Beethoven's 
Sonata  at  that  concert  in  Skarne  the  other  day?" 

"That's  why.  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it  ...  for  so 
many  months  it  haunted  me.  Then  I  danced.  ...  I 
danced  myself  mad,  Arthur  .  .  .  and  I've  never  danced 
since. ' ' 

'Was  that  all?" 
'All.     Only  that  once." 
'Rough  luck!"  murmured  the  man. 
'And  I  paid  the  price.    And  he  got  off,  as  usual!" 
heavy  pritJe  for  a  musical  evening,"  Joxrelyn  said, 


280  DOWNWARD 

whimsically,  and  then  in  a  changed  voice,  "but  you  love 
your  boy.    You  think  he's  worth  it?" 

"Of  course  he's  worth  it  all,  a  hundred  times  over! 
But  I  might  have  had  him  without  those  horrors,  and 
that  thought  makes  me  very  bitter." 

"Was  it  so  very  bad,  Dolly  dear?" 

"Hell,  Arthur— heU!  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  even 
now!  I  can't  talk  about  that  time." 

"And  how  was  it  it  ended  like  this?" — he  looked  com- 
prehensively round  the  pretty,  comfortable  room. 

"Dacre  managed  all  that.  That  Christmas  he  took 
three  weeks'  holiday.  He  went  out  to  see  Theo  in  Cairo. 
What  happened  I  never  knew,  but  Theo  agreed  to  allow 
me  £300  a  year  if  the  child  lived,  and  also  to  pay  later 
for  his  education.  Dacre  insisted  on  a  proper  settlement 
— it  was  all  his  idea.  I  didn't  like  taking  Theo's  money, 
but  he  was  rich,  and  I  was  determined  the  child  should 
have  the  right  environment  from  the  first,  and  every 
chance  in  life,  at  whatever  cost." 

"Quite  right — why  shouldn't  the  brute  pay?" 

"That's  what  Dacre  said.  Towards  the  last  I  came 
here  to  hide.  There  were  no  bungalows  then ;  I  lived  in 
one  of  those  thatched  cottages  up  at  Dillborough.  I  had 
taken  the  name  of  Faithfull  and  I  wore  widow's  weeds, 
though  I  simply  loathed  doing  that.  It  was  Cliff's  idea-, 
she  said  the  reason  these  miserable  secrets  cropped  up 
afterwards  was  because  people  didn't  attend  properly 
to  details  at  the  time,  so  I  became  known  here  from  the 
first  as  a  highly  respectable  widow." 

"What  made  you  take  that  name?" 

"I  wanted  the  initial  F  for  one  thing,  and  then  I'm  a 
great  believer  in  the  influence  of  names.  I  thought  it 
would  be  a  good  one  for  Keddy  to  bear  through  life,  and 
would  perhaps  help  to  keep  me  up  to  the  mark,  too — it 
was  such  a  difficult  life  I  was  starting  on.  When  Keddy 
was  born  I  wanted  to  register  him  as  the  son  of  Dorothea 
and  the  late  somebody  Faithfull,  but  Dacre  wouldn't 
permit  it ;  he  said  it  was  a  criminal  offence.  On  his  ad- 
vice, the  registration  was  purposely  omitted,  and  if  ever 


DOWNWARD  231 

Keds  has  to  produce  a  certificate  to  prove  Ms  age,  it 
must  be  his  baptismal  one.  He  was  christened  at  Skarne 
Church.  Cliff  and  Dacre  were  his  god-parents,  and  we 
gave  him  the  names  of  '  Clifford  Hamilton. '  So  you  see, 
all  is  in  order  for  him,  and  no  one  knows  except  my  two 
true  friends." 

"And  me — also  your  true  friend." 

Perhaps  it  was  a  shadow  thrown  by  the  flickering  fire- 
light, perhaps  it  was  merely  a  morbid  imagination,  but 
for  an  instant  it  seemed  to  Dolly  there  was  a  hint  of 
triumph  in  Jocelyn's  expression,  a  sinister  twist  to  his 
mouth.  The  impression  had  passed  instantly,  but  a  look 
of  fear  crept  into  Dolly's  eyes.  She  recalled  how  little 
she  knew  of  Jocelyn,  how  short  had  been  their  acquaint- 
ance; yet  here  she  was  telling  him  the  secrets  so  care- 
fully guarded  by  her  trusted  friends — secrets  on  which 
her  boy's  welfare  might  depend. 

She  got  up  on  her  knees  and  put  one  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  are  my  true  friend,  Arthur?"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "You'll  never,  never  tell?" 

' '  Good  heavens,  what  d  'you  take  me  for  ?  I  'm  a  white 
man,  I  hope !  D  'you  think  I  would  give  a  woman 
away?"  His  tone  was  angry.  Dolly  spoke  soothingly. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,  or  I  shouldn't  confide  in  youu 
It  means  too  much  to  me.  But  promise,  Arthur." 

"You're  safe  with  me,  little  lady — of  course  I  prom- 
ise. Now  finish  the  story.  Why  didn't  you  go  on  the 
stage?" 

"The  doctor  said  I  must  never  dance  again.  .  .  .  1 
was  very  ill,  you  see  ...  everything  went  wrong. 
Eeally,  it  was  a  wonder  we  lived  at  all !  And  giving  up 
my  dancing  I  minded  more  than  I  could  say — that  was 
the  last  and  cruellest  blow,  though  there  seemed  a 
peculiar  fitness  about  it — when  I  remembered." 

' '  What  made  you  settle  here  ? ' ' 

"It  was  the  only  place  where  the  boy  thrived.  I  tried 
other  places  for  a  little,  but  we  came  back  here  finally, 
and  lived  in  one  of  the  first  bungalows — a  dreadfully 
jerry-built  hovel  with  walls  three  inches  thick,  Oh, 


232  DOWNWARD 

that  first  winter  and  the  howling  of  the  wind!  .  .  . 
Dacre  thought  I'd  be  less  restless  if  I  had  a  nice  home 
to  take  root  in.  So  he  bought  this  piece  of  land  and 
built  me  this  dear  house,  when  Keds  was  a  year  old. 
I  watched  it  being  put  up  and  planted  everything  in  the 
garden  myself.  All  the  fittings  I  chose  in  town;  Dacre 
made  me  get  the  best  of  everything.  I  insist  on  paying 
rent  for  it,  but  of  course  what  I  pay  is  purely  nominal, 
and  I  believe  he  puts  by  my  little  quarterly  cheques  in 
the  Savings-Bank  account  he  opened  for  Keddy.  And, 
lastly,  he  furnished  it  throughout  for  me  as  a  present. 
I  sometimes  feel  ashamed  of  all  I've  taken  from  him,  but 
it  consoles  me  to  think  it's  for  the  boy,  too.  A  charming 
home  makes  such  a  difference  to  a  child." 

"Your  friend  certainly  has  been  very  decent." 
"Oh,  Arthur,  you  may  well  say  it.  And  he's  so  wise 
and  understanding,  too.  The  house  was  really  a  wonder- 
ful idea  of  his.  It's  kept  me  occupied  for  nearly  two 
years,  the  building  and  furnishing  and  laying  out  the 
garden.  But  the  novelty  has  passed  off  now  .  .  .  lately 

I've  begun  to  feel  ...  I've  been  thinking " 

"You're  beginning  to  tire  of  this  secluded  life?" 
"I  don't  know."  Dolly  hesitated.  Jocelyn  saw  his 
chance.  "It  would  be  strange  if  you  were  satisfied,"  he 
said,  eagerly.  "The  mother-passion  is  all  very  well,  but 
a  woman  can't  live  by  it  alone.  A  woman  like  you  wants 
a  man  by  her  side.  You're  too  young  to  bury  yourself 
here.  A  beautiful  woman  should  be  in  the  world,  tasting 
the  joys  of  woman's  power,  seeing  life.  You  were 
meant  for  love,  Dolly;  you're  simply  wasting  yourself 
here.  ..." 

Tears  gathered  in  Dolly's  blue  eyes  and  fell  down  her 
cheeks.  She  was  still  kneeling  upon  the  hearth-rug. 
Jocelyn,  bending  forward,  drew  her  into  his  arms,  mur- 
muring words  of  comfort.  For  a  few  minutes  she  rested 
her  head  on  his  shoulder  contentedly  enough,  and  even 
clasped  her  arms  around  his  neck;  but  when  his  lips 
sought  hers  she  pushed  him  away  with  an  exclamation 
of  anger. 


DOWNWARD  233 

"Don't — you  know  I  don't  want  that!  How  hateful 
you  men  are!  You've  only  got  one  idea  in  your  heads 
where  a  woman's  concerned." 

She  resumed  her  seat  on  the  opposite  chair  and  con- 
tinued more  calmly.  "You  didn't  mean  to  vex  me,  I 
know,  but  it's  so  strange  that  you  men  should  never  be 
able  to  see  beyond  passion.  Can't  you  see  that  after  my 
experiences  I  never  want  anything  to  do  with  passion 
again?  Isn't  it  plain  to  you  that  a  woman  may  want 
something  else  from  a  man?  Can't  you  understand  the 
necessity  for  affection  in  a  woman's  life,  that  she  some- 
times longs  to  put  her  head  down  on  a  man 's  rough  coat, 
and  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  just  have  a  real 
brotherly  hug,  something  no  woman  could  give  her  ? ' ' 

"No,  my  dear,  the  brotherly-love  tack  where  a  pretty 
woman  is  concerned  I  certainly  do  not  understand,  espe- 
cially at  nearly  1  a.m.!" 

"Arthur,  what  a  brute  you  are !  You  disgust  me,  but 
I  can 't  help  laughing  at  you ;  you  are  such  an  ingenuous 
brute — a  naive  brute.  There's  something  to  be  said  for 
Mrs.  Redwood's  and  Miss  Sapper's  point  of  view,  after 
all.  You  men  do  your  best  to  give  reason  for  it.  I've 
a  great  mind  to  turn  you  out  of  my  house  without  more 
ado." 

"I  shouldn't  go." 

"Elizabeth  would  soon  make  you  if  I  eoiildn't." 

"There  I  agree.  I  quail  before  the  thought  of  the 
incomparable  Elizabethan  brawn.  Before  Elizabeth's 
bovine  arms  I  should  flee.  But  you  wouldn't  have  the 
heart  to  wake  her  up  after  her  hard  day 's  work,  surely ! 
And  I  'm  just  going  to  make  you  some  coffee,  too ! " 

"I'll  tolerate  you,  then,  if  you'll  make  the  coffee,  but 
no  more  amorous  advances,  please." 

"Seriously,  Dolly,"  Jocelyn  was  standing  over  her. 
"Seriously,  you've  called  me  a  devil  and  a  brute  and  a 
few  other  things  to-night.  Don't  you  realize  what  a 
perfect  little  fiend  you  are  being,  sitting  there  in  that 
blue  wrapper " 

"It's  a  tea-gown,  a  most  sophisticated  garment!" 


234,  DOWNWARD 

"It  has  all  the  deviltry  of  neglige,  and  yon  sit  there 
with  your  alluring  hair  hanging  in  a  plait  and  tell  me 
the  story  of  how  another  man  has  loved  and  won  you  .  .  . 
why,  it's  more  than  I  can  stand!" 

"Good  gracious — you  asked  for  it!" 

"Yes,  I  longed  to  know  your  life,  because  I'm  wild 
about  you.  You  know  I  am — you  know  I  want  you 
desperately,  Dolly!" 

It  would  be  untrue  to  say  that  Dolly  felt  no  qualm  of 
fear  as  Joeelyn's  eyes  glowered  at  her.  It  was  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night ;  outside  the  wind  whistled  and  howled. 
After  all,  a  considerable  volume  of  sound  might  be  re- 
quired to  wake  Elizabeth,  and  a  very  little  would  suffice 
to  aroose  and  frighten  the  child ;  but  it  would  never  do 
to  show  fear  of  Jocelyn,  and  it  would  never  do  to  upset 
Keddy.  With  an  effort  Dolly  laughed  in  his  face. 

"  Arthur,  there  are  many  things  I  want  from  you — 
yoor  friendship,  your  companionship,  your  masculine 
point  of  view,  your  admirable  sense  of  humour,  to  say 
nothing  of  your  books  and  your  golf -knowledge,  but  I 
do  not  want  your  carnal  conversation,  nor  any  man's. 
D'yon  understand,  once  and  for  all,  that  I've  done  with 
that  kind  of  thing  forever!" 

"But  not  long  ago  you  said  something  about  mar- 
rying." 

"Marrying,  perhaps,  but  not — that  kind  of  thing!" 

Brutal  words  rose  to  the  man's  lips:  "That  kind  of 
thing  is  all  you  can  expect  now.  No  sane  man  would 
marry  a  woman  with  your  history!"  but  he  checked 
them,  and  it  was  well  that  he  did. 

"Very  well,  I  accept  that  as  final,"  he  said,  somewhat 
sullenly. 

"Good,  and  now  since  the  kettle's  boiling,  will  you 
make  the  coffee,  and  at  two  o'clock  sharp  you  must  go. 
If  Keddy  hasn't  wakened  by  then,  he  won't  stir  till 
dawn,  and  I  might  just  as  well  go  to  bed  so  as  to  be 
fresh  to  look  after  him  in  the  morning."  With  this  she 
went  into  Keddy 's  room,  locking  the  door  behind  her. 

Jocelyn  brewed  the  coffee  and  awaited  her  return 


DOWNWARD  285 

with  some  curiosity.  He  could  not  help  laughing  when 
she  reappeared  with  her  hair  coiled  up  and  the  seductive 
blue  nigligi  replaced  by  a  dark  tailor-made  costume  of 
the  severest  cut,  a  stiff  white  linen  collar  and  black  tie 
encircling  her  throat. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you'd  enjoy  your  coffee  better  if 
I  attended  to  your  hint,"  she  said,  demurely. 

"You  look  positively  hideous,  Dolly,"  he  retorted. 
"What  a  cruel  revenge  to  take  on  me !" 

But  when,  at  five  minutes  past  two,  he  returned  to  his 
own  lodging,  it  was  with  a  somewhat  savage  feeling  of 
disappointment  that  the  evening  had  turned  out  so 
differently  from  his  expectation. 

"I  never  dreamed  it  was  as  bad  as  that,"  he  thought. 
"Nobody  could  marry  her,  of  course.  I'd  give  anything 
to  have  her  in  town  for  a  month.  And  she  so  refined,  so 
particular,  such  good  style — a  kept  woman  1  Who'd 
have  thought  it?" 


IV 

THREE  weeks  later  came  a  day  of  sudden  spring.  The 
sun  shone  in  unaccustomed  bravery.  Soft  breezes  blew 
from  the  west,  and  as  Dolly  walked  round  her  garden, 
cutting  slips  of  foliage  for  her  vases,  she  felt  the  spring 
pangs  in  her  heart. 

Keddy,  in  a  blue  reefer  coat,  seated  on  a  wooden  horse 
which  bore  the  unexpected  name  of  Bognor,  was  speed- 
ing on  a  mad  career,  along  the  length  of  the  hall,  into 
the  little  drawing-room,  out  through  the  French  win- 
dow, on  to  the  gravelled  path  that  encircled  the  lawn 
and  then  back  again.  Shouting  joyously  to  his  steed, 
he  propelled  himself  partly  by  its  wheels  and  partly  by 
his  own  feet,  to  the  great  detriment  both  of  the  gravelled 
path  and  of  the  carpets. 

Dolly  hummed  softly  to  herself  as  she  arranged  her 
vases.  She  was  startled  when  Arthur  Jocelyn's  voice 
hailed  her  suddenly  from  the  window. 

"It's  a  glorious  day.  What  do  you  say  to  an  hour  on 
the  links?" 

"No,  thanks,  Saturday's  my  busiest  morning.  I've 
the  flowers  to  finish,  and  buttons  to  sew  on  Keddy 's 
clean  clothes  and  heaps  of  other  little  things  to  do." 

"And  this  afternoon  I  suppose  you're  booked  for  Mrs. 
Redwood 's  hen-cackle  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  aren't  you?" 

"I  was  foolhardy  enough  to  accept,  but  couldn't  we 
both  cut  it  and  go  for  a  good  long  walk  along  the  cliffs 
to  Wylvering  Towers  or  over  the  fields  to  Blenner 
Woods?  Do,  it's  such  a  ripping  day — it's  a  sin  to  waste 
it  on  a  goose-gossip." 

' '  True,  but  you  know  how  terrified  I  am  of  Mrs.  Red- 
wood. She'd  never  forgive  me  for  cutting  her  party." 
236 


DOWNWARD  237 

"Pooh!  she'd  never  know." 

"Never  know?  What  blasphemy,  Arthur!  Why, 
Mrs.  Redwood  is  absolutely  omniscient  as  regards  the 
doings  of  Wylton.  She's  like  the  beasts  with  eyes  behind 
and  before.  My  life  wouldn't  be  worth  living.  Besides, 
I've  a  special  reason  for  going;  your  large  friend,  Mr. 
Leigh,  is  to  be  there." 

' '  The  deuce  he  is !    What  possesses  him  ? ' ' 

Dolly  smiled  mischievously.  "How  should  I  know? 
But  I  fancy  he  has  a  passion  for  Miss  Sapper,"  she 
replied,  demurely. 

"But  how  did  he  get  to  know  old  Mother  Redwood? 
He  didn't  want  to,  I'm  sure." 

"That's  very  possible,  but  though  a  Norse  King  pro- 
poses, Mother  Redwood  disposes.  She  wished  it,  and 
so — it  was!" 

"I  wonder  what  you  see  in  him!"  said  Jocelyn,  after 
a  short  pause,  and  his  changed  tone  made  Dolly  laugh 
outright.  "What  the  dickens  is  there  to  laugh  at?"  he 
continued,  rather  irritably.  "Why,  you've  barely  known 
the  man  a  week!" 

"Three  weeks  exactly  since  you  introduced  us  at  the 
golf  club." 

"Wish  I  hadn't.  You  hardly  knew  him  when  I  went 
up  to  town  last  week,  and,  after  about  ten  days  away,  I 
come  back  and  find  you  and  he  as  thick  as  thieves." 

"Well,  that's  your  fault  for  going  away,"  retorted 
Dolly.  "You  leave  me  alone  in  this  godless,  manless 
spot  in  the  dire  month  of  March ;  I  meet  the  Norse  King 
every  day  on  the  links.  There  we  are,  two  stranded 
souls " 

"Teh!  I  like  the  idea  of  the  beefy  Godwin  being  a 
stranded  soul." 

' '  Beefy !    What  a  libel !    You  're  jealous,  Arthur. ' ' 

"Seriously,  Dolly " 

"Mrs.  Faithfull,  please!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Faithfull,  darn  it  all !  Seriously,  why  have 
you  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Leigh?" 


238  DOWNWARD 

"It's  no  business  of  yours,  but  I'll  tell  you.  I  like 
him  because — because " 

' '  Hi-yup-hoo !  hi-yup-hoo ! ' '  With  wild  yells  Keddy 
came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  and  affectionately 
butted  into  Jocelyn. 

"Hullo,  how's  the  Keds-man?  Quite  well  again  now, 
old  chap?  And  how's  Bognor?  He  looks  rather  down 
on  his  luck." 

"What's  'downonisluck'  mean?"  inquired  the  child. 

"Oh,  off  colour — I  mean  to  say  miserable.  Poor  old 
Bognor 's  getting  to  look  a  bit  bashed  about,  don't  you 
think?" 

"I  daresay  that's  because  Keds  has  taken  to  throwing 
him  down  the  cliff  path,"  Dolly  remarked. 

' '  By  Jove !  that  must  hurt  him  awfully. ' ' 

"It  doesn't  matter,  he  must  learn  to  be  brave,"  re- 
plied the  child,  gravely.  "Mumma,  may  I  have  anuvver 
pink  tulup?" 

"Darling,  you've  already  had  several  tulips,  and  they 
cost  a  penny  each,  and  you  only  waste  them." 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  stuck  them  on  my  sand-castle  in 
the  back  garden." 

"Well,  here's  a  lovely  daffodil." 

"Bognor  likes  the  tulups  best — he  says  so." 

"  Bognor 's  tastes  are  really  very  expensive,"  said 
Dolly,  handing  her  son  another  tulip  resignedly.  "Look 
at  the  track  his  wheels  have  made  across  the  carpet  in 
this  room,"  she  continued,  addressing  Jocelyn;  Keddy 
had  rushed  off  with  another  joyous  yell.  "But  when  I 
remonstrate,  I'm  told  that  Bognor  doesn't  like  to  go  in 
at  the  front  door.  Elizabeth  was  scolding  me  about  the 
carpet  this  morning,  and  I  told  her  the  house  was  made 
for  the  child,  not  the  child  for  the  house." 

"You  make  an  idol  of  that  boy." 

"It's  better  than  making  an  idol  of  the  furniture  as 
some  women  do  ...  and  what  else  have  I  got  to  make 
an  idol  of?"  she  cried  with  sudden  passion. 

"I'm  sorry,  Dolly,  if  I  said  anything  to  hurt  you  " 


DOWNWARD  239 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me.  I'm  foolish  to-day;  it's  the 
spring,  you  know." 

"Ah,  yes,  'the  wild,  wonderful  harlot,'  the  'pale, 
slim  young  witch' — she's  very  disturbing,  I  know." 

"You  really  are  a  nice  person  at  understanding, 
Arthur."  She  joined  him  at  the  window,  and  together 
they  gazed  for  a  while  in  silence  at  the  mystery  of  sky 
and  sea  spread  out  before  them. 

"Mumma,  may  I  have  anuwer  tulup?"  asked  Keddy, 
reappearing  suddenly. 

"No,  beloved;  I've  used  them  all  except  this  bruised 
yellow  one.  You  can  have  that  if  you  like." 

"Bognor  doesn't  like  them  b'oosed,  and  it'll  look 
wrong  with  the  pink  ones,  mummy." 

"Bless  my  soul!  what  an  aesthetic  youngster  it  is  I" 
exclaimed  Jocelyn. 

"With  a  sigh  Dolly  took  one  of  the  tulips  from  a  vase. 
"Now,  Keddy,  this  is  the  very  last,"  she  said,  sternly; 
"tell  Bognor  that  mother  really  means  it." 

"And  tell  Bognor  that  /  think  he  ought  to  cultivate 
a  taste  for  humbler  flowers,"  added  Jocelyn.  "Penny 
tulips,  indeed — luxurious  dog!" 

"No,  uncle,  he's  a  horse,"  explained  the  child,  seri- 
ously, adding  in  a  lowered  voice,  "it  isn't  really  him 
what  likes  the  tulups,  that's  only  pretendin';  they're 
for  mt." 

Jocelyn  shouted  with  laughter,  but  Dolly's  blue  eyes 
narrowed  in  sudden  pain.  "It's  all  so  like  his  father," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"By  Jove!"  murmured  Jocelyn.  He  pressed  her 
hand  silently,  shouldered  his  clubs  and  strode  off  along 
the  road. 

Dolly  remained  standing  at  the  window,  looking 
blankly  at  the  horizon.  There  was  only  one  figure 
visible  between  the  bungalow  and  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
a  man  in  dark  clothes  who  was  walking  along  slowly,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  turned  on  the  ground.  Pres- 
ently Dolly  became  aware  of  him  and  stared  at  him 
fixedly. 


240  DOWNWARD 

"What's  come  over  me  to-day?"  she  thought.  "I'm 
quite  hysterical.  If  I  didn't  know  it  was  impossible,  I 
should  say  that  was  Theo,  just  the  same  look  of  the 
shoulders  and  back  of  the  head.  ...  It's  a  long  time 
since  I  thought  of  him,  but  to-day  I  can't  get  him  out  of 
my  head.  I  wonder  where  they  are — if  Helen's  happy 
— if  they  have  children.  Does  he  ever  remember  ?  Does 
he  ever  think  of — us?" 

"Mumma,"  said  a  sad  little  voice  behind  her,  "do  you 
fink  uncle  really  meant  it  when  he  said  Bognor  looked 
miserable?  I  shouldn't  like  to  fink  my  throwing  him 
down  the  cliff  made  him  downonisluck. " 

Dolly  drew  her  son  into  her  arms. 

"No,  uncle  didn't  mean  it  like  that,"  she  answered, 
with  equal  earnestness.  "I'm  quite  sure  Bognor 's  a 
very  happy  horse.  He  has  everything  he  wants,  even 
his  favorite  flowers,  but  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn  't  throw 
him  down  the  cliff  again,  just  in  case  it  smashed  him. 
And  now  I'm  coming  to  see  your  castle,  but  first  give 
mother  a  tremendous  hug,  little  son — a  real,  hard  love, 
arms-round-neck,  because  mother's  got  such  a  pain." 

"A  pain,  mumma?"  inquired  Keddy  anxiously,  one 
sympathetic  hand  placed  involuntarily  on  his  own  small 
stomach. 

"Yes,  my  Brown  Birdeen,  but  not  that  sort  of  pain." 

"A  heggache,  mum?" 

"No,  not  a  heggache  either!" 

"Oh,  then,  that's  all  right,"  he  returned  in  a  relieved 
voice.  "Elizabeth  says  those  are  the  only  pains  that 
matter." 


MBS.  REDWOOD'S  bungalow,  one  of  the  many  "Mas- 
cottes,"  was  situated  in  "King's  Drive,"  a  thorough- 
fare at  present  represented  by  a  cart-track  along  the 
downs.  It  was  as  yet  the  only  finished  dwelling  in  "The 
Drive,"  though  a  melancholy  litter  of  bricks  and  scaf- 
folding poles  gave  evidence  that  at  least  one  other  was 
in  contemplation.  Old  Colonel  Eedwood  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  pottering  about  with  a  telescope 
in  his  front  garden,  and  it  was  said  in  Wylton  that  Mrs. 
Redwood's  extraordinary  knowledge  of  her  neighbours' 
doings  was  due  to  her  own  manoeuvres  with  the  tele- 
scope from  the  large  bay-window  of  her  sitting-room. 

She  was  the  only  permanent  resident  of  Wylton  who 
entertained  regularly,  and  her  frequent  tea-parties  were 
well  attended  by  her  neighbours,  whether  from  motives 
of  ennui  or  fear  it  is  impossible  to  determine. 

"One  certainly  gets  to  know  there  what's  going  on  in 
the  place,"  was  Miss  Sapper's  comment  as  she  overtook 
Dolly  on  the  way  to  "Mascotte"  that  afternoon.  "Get- 
ting to  know"  was  a  passion  with  this  lady,  a  tall, 
weather-beaten  spinster,  with  bright,  bird-like  eyes  and 
that  air  of  intense  busyness  which  extremely  leisured 
folk  take  such  pleasure  in  assuming. 

Miss  Sapper  seldom  concluded  a  letter  (and  she  wrote 
scores  of  unnecessary  ones  weekly)  without  the  words 
"in  desperate  haste,"  and  her  answer  to  perfunctory 
inquiries  as  to  her  health  was  invariably,  "Well,  thank 
you,  but  oh!  so  terribly  rushed!"  She  and  Mrs.  Red- 
wood were  the  rival  news-agencies  of  Wylton,  but  Miss 
Sapper  considered  the  other  had  an  unfair  advantage 
over  her  in  the  possession  of  a  telescope  and  a  husband, 
241 


242  DOWNWARD 

who,  in  spite  of  a  misanthropic  dislike  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  especially  women,  was  certainly  a  means  of 
bringing  news  home. 

' '  Have  you  seen  anything  of  the  new  people  at  Square 
House?"  she  asked;  ""Waller  their  name  is.  I  met  him 
this  morning  on  the  cliff  not  far  from  your  house — quite 
a  young  man,  with  such  an  interesting  face  and  rather 
long  hair ;  he  looked  like  a  poet. ' ' 

"I  think  I  saw  him,"  said  DoUy  without  interest. 
"A  wealthy  poet  is  rather  an  incongruity,  somehow." 

"How  do  you  know  they're  wealthy?"  demanded  Miss 
Sapper,  judicially. 

"I  don't;  they  seem  wealthy,  but  I  know  nothing 
about  them  except  what  Mr.  Jocelyn  told  me." 

"Ah!  it  was  I  who  told  Mr.  Jocelyn  what  he  knew," 
said  the  other,  triumphantly. 

"Of  course,  who  else  could  have?" 

Enormously  gratified  by  this  ironical  compliment  to 
her  powers  as  a  news-agent,  which  she  resolved  to  repeat 
to  her  professional  rival  at  the  earliest  opportunity, 
Miss  Sapper  poured  out  a  stream  of  information  about 
the  new-comers.  Dolly  barely  listened,  being  fully  occu- 
pied with  holding  her  pretty  dress  out  of  the  mud  and 
picking  out  the  least  bog-like  parts  of  the  road  to  walk 
in.  The  wind,  too,  had  risen,  which  necessitated  occa- 
sional attention  to  her  hat.  "There'll  be  another  storm 
to-night,"  she  said  to  her  companion,  "and  we  shall 
have  another  horrid,  bleak  Sunday." 

"Dr.  Marler  from  Skarne  calls  every  day,"  Miss 
Sapper  answered,  too  engrossed  with  the  thought  of  her 
new  neighbours  to  give  any  thought  to  the  weather. 
"She  is  a  great  sufferer,  Mrs.  Waller,  I  mean;  it  was  a 
London  specialist  who  advised  her  to  come  here." 

"I  wish  I  could  take  an  interest  in  strangers  as  you 
do,"  said  the  younger  woman  frankly.  "It  must  be 
very  time-filling.  As  it  is,  unless  they  appeal  to  me  in 
some  special  way,  or  they've  got  children  for  Keddy  to 
play  with — the  Wilsons  haven't  any,  I  suppose?" 

"Waller,  my  dear,  Waller — I  happened  to  be  passing 


DOWNWARD  243 

when  their  luggage  was  unloaded,  and,  of  course,  looked 
for  the  name.  No,  there  are  no  children;  three  have 
been  born  dead — isn't  it  sad?  They're  frantically  anx- 
ious for  a  family — quite  young  people,  you  know." 

"Poor  souls!" 

Arrived  at  their  destination,  the  women  lingered  in 
the  porch  to  shed  their  outer  Wellington  boots  without 
which  it  was  almost  impossible  to  traverse  the  Wylton 
by-roads  at  that  time  of  year.  Whilst  thus  engaged, 
Dolly  was  amused  to  see  Jocelyn 's  familiar  tweed-clad 
figure  making  difficult  progress  along  King's  Drive. 

"He's  come,  after  all — to  keep  watch  over  me,  I  do 
believe,"  she  thought  with  amusement. 

The  two  small  sitting-rooms  were  packed  with  people, 
amongst  whom  the  hostess  gyrated  genially.  She  was  a 
large,  robust  lady,  looking  ten  and  behaving  twenty 
years  younger  than  her  real  age.  Her  most  noticeable 
point  was  an  astonishing  staccato  laugh,  which  irrever- 
ent subalterns  in  her  regimental  days  had  nicknamed 
"the  Redwood  neigh." 

One  swift,  comprehensive  glance  sufficed  to  show  Dolly 
that  Godwin  Leigh  had  not  yet  arrived.  Presently  she 
found  Jocelyn  at  her  side.  "So  the  hen-cackle  is,  after 
all,  to  be  graced  by  the  condescending  cockerel,"  she 
said,  smiling  maliciously. 

"Apparently  not,"  he  retorted,  with  a  grin  at  his 
own  aptness.  "I  don't  see  the  beefy  Godwin  any- 
where. ' ' 

"You're  looking  in  the  wrong  place,  then.  The  Norse 
King  is  just  making  a  most  effective  entry,"  replied 
Dolly,  trying  to  speak  naturally,  but  conscious  of  a  sud- 
den feeling — half  shyness,  half  excitement — as  she 
caught  sight  of  Godwin  Leigh  towering  above  the  other 
heads  in  the  doorway. 

Without  a  word  Jocelyn  moved  away.  Dolly  was  too 
preoccupied  to  notice  his  expression  or  give  him  a 
thought.  The  other  man  had  seen  her  and  was  making 
his  way  to  her. 

Exceptionally    tall    and    very    upright,    with    crisp, 


244  DOWNWARD 

reddish-gold  hair  which  would  have  curled  had  it  been 
allowed  to  grow  longer,  bright,  rather  prominent  blue- 
grey  eyes  and  a  healthy,  tanned  skin — Godwin  Leigh's 
appearance,  on  the  whole,  justified  Dolly's  nickname  of 
the  Norse  King.  In  addition,  he  was  well  set-up,  lithe, 
lean  and  excellently  tailored,  and  the  only  thing  about 
him  that  did  not  please  Dolly's  taste  was  his  long,  fair 
moustache  and  the  rather  full  under-lip  it  just  revealed. 

"I  was  looking  everywhere  for  a  blue  hat  and 
gown,"  he  said,  "only  instead  of  navy-blue,  to-day 
it's  a— a— a " 

"Saxe-blue,"  rejoined  Dolly.  "On  these  festive  occa- 
sions I  shed  my  eternal  coat  and  skirt." 

"I  like  it,"  was  his  answer,  "but  I  like  this,  too,  im- 
mensely," he  indicated  the  clinging  folds  of  her  graceful 
long  gown.  "You  always  wear  blue,  don't  you,  to  match 
your  eyes?" 

"Of  course!" 

"When  may  I  come  and  see  Keddy  again?  He  prom- 
ised me  the  privilege  of  digging  in  his  sand-heap  at  my 
next  visit.  To-morrow's  Sunday  —  may  I  come  to- 
morrow?" 

"Yes,  do,"  said  Dolly,  who  was  intensely  conscious  of 
Jocelyn — antagonistic — at  her  side. 

"I  say,  Leigh,  you're  forgetting  the  foursome  we've 
fixed  up  for  to-morrow  afternoon,"  he  interposed. 

"No,  I'm  not;  but  we  can't  play  later  than  five.  May 
I  come  at  five,  Mrs.  Faithfull?" 

As  Dolly  assented,  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  "There's 
actually  some  one  I  know.  What  a  place  this  is  for 
meeting  long-lost  friends!" 

A  very  pretty,  fluffy  young  woman  had  just  come  in 
and  was  greeting  Mrs.  Redwood. 

"Why,  it's  Mrs.  Darner,"  said  Dolly.  "She  stayed 
with  Lady  Holbrook  at  Skarne  Park  two  years  ago. 
Yes,  there's  Lady  Holbrook,  too;  she's  Mrs.  Redwood's 
cousin,  you  know." 

While  speaking  she  had  rapidly  taken  in  every  detail 
of  the  other  woman's  attire,  noted  the  different  style  of 


DOWNWARD  245 

her  sleeves,  the  novelty  of  her  hat  and  half  a  dozen 
other  details  which  proclaimed  her  costume  to  be  more 
correctly  modish  than  Dolly's  own.  The  two  women 
were  by  now  near  enough  to  greet  each  other.  Mrs. 
Darner  appeared  pleased  to  see  Dolly.  "You  still  here?" 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  slight  but  rather  fascinating 
shriek;  "actually  one  real  woman  among  the  troglo- 
dytes !  How  are  you,  and  how  on  earth  do  you  manage 
to  stick  to  this  barbarous  piece  of  coast  year  after  year  ? 
Don't  tell  me  you've  been  here  ever  since!" 

"I  have  indeed;  I'm  stuck  to  it,  you  see.  Here's 
some  one  else  you  know." 

' '  Godwin  Leigh,  of  all  the  unlikeliest  visions !  It  must 
be  epochs  since  we  met.  What  are  you  doing  here — 
reforming  the  local  scandal-mongers?  That  would  be 
a  good  work,  wouldn't  it,  Mrs.  Paithfull?" 

Godwin  replied  that  he  was  having  a  holiday,  golfing, 
and  the  volatile  lady  turned  up  her  eyes. 

"M on  Dieu — what  a  place  for  a  holiday!" 

"Well,  I've  had  the  unexpected  luck  to  meet  two  old 
friends,  to  say  nothing  of  a  delightful  new  one  in  Mrs. 
Faithfull."  He  glanced  at  Dolly  and  smiled. 

"Ah!  and  you've  actually  survived  it — the  place  and 
the  golf-club  cooking,  I  mean,  not  the  friends,  of  course. 
Well,  and  how  are  your  projects  going?  Are  you  still 
in  the  London  County  Council,  agitating  for  providing 
factory  girls  with  manicure  sets  and  deserving  char- 
women with  pin-curls?" 

"I'm  still  fighting  for  helpless  women  and  children," 
replied  Leigh,  stiffly,  reddening  a  little.  Mrs.  Darner 
shrieked  with  laughter,  and  Dolly  experienced  a  slight 
revulsion  of  feeling  towards  the  Norse  King.  He  had 
very  nice  manners,  but  no  sense  of  humour,  and  he  was 
certainly  inclined  to  be  a  wee  bit  priggish. 

"Mr.  Leigh,  you're  simply  golden!"  cried  Mrs. 
Darner,  still  chuckling.  "I  wish  Dickie  could  have  heard 
that.  The  wretch  wouldn  't  come  with  us  to-day — I  can 't 
blame  him!  You  remember  Dickie  Worrall,  Mrs. 
Faithfull;  he's  stayin'  at  Skarne  Park,  too." 


246  DOWNWARD 

"And  that  other  friend  of  yours,  Captain  Lane,  who 
was  so  kind  to  my  little  boy?" 

''Jimmy?  Oh,  he's  coming  on  Saturday  when  Dickie 
goes.  Minna  Holbrook  refused  to  have  them  both  at 
once.  She  said  they  were  so  troublesome  last  time,  but 
I  refused  to  come  without  either  of  them." 

Dolly  reflected  on  the  fidelity  of  Mrs.  Darner's  ad- 
mirers. It  must  be  quite  two  years  since  she  had  visited 
Skarne  before  and  scandalized  the  news-agencies  by  her 
calm  acceptance  of  the  young  officers'  obvious  devotion. 

"Minna  has  been  quite  disagreeable  about  it,"  Mrs. 
Darner  was  saying;  "she  made  me  promise  that  when 
Jimmy  came  down  Dickie  should  go  back.  So  absurd  I ' ' 

"How  is  your  husband?"  asked  Godwin,  suddenly. 
If  he  had  hoped  to  embarrass  the  lady  he  was  dis- 
appointed. 

"My  poor  Charlie?  Why,  the  poor  pet  is  grilling  on 
the  plains  of  India,  building  ugly  bridges  and  so  forth. 
Where  else  should  he  be?" 

"And  when  do  you  rejoin  him?" 

"In  October,"  said  Mrs.  Darner  promptly,  her  eyes 
dfrnfting  with  satisfaction  not  wholly  free  from  malice 
at  being  able  to  give  an  unexpected  reply.  She  added, 
demurely:  "Dickie  and  Jimmy  and  I  are  all  going  out 
together  in  a  trooper  probably.  Won't  it  be  fun?" 

Leigh  moved  away,  and  the  two  women  exchanged 
amused  glances.  Dolly  had  never  liked  him  less. 

' '  He 's  starchier  than  ever, ' '  said  Mrs.  Darner ;  ' '  what- 
ever will  he  be  like  when  he's  in  the  House  of  Lords? 
You  know  he's  Hatherton's  heir,  I  suppose?" 

But  Jocelyn  had  not  told  Dolly  this,  and  she  won- 
dered why. 

"Now  do  tell  me  about  yourself,"  Mrs.  Darner  con- 
tinued; "how  do  you  manage  to  survive  the  troglo- 
dytes?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  Wyltoners?  What  a  good  name 
for  them ! ' ' 

"Yes,  isn't  it? — they  are  so  prehistoric.  I  knew  it 
would  amuse  me  t-0  come,  and  would  pJease  Minna  and 


DOWNWARD  247 

annoy  Mrs.  Redwood.  She  hates  me,  yon  know.  I 
believe  her  neigh  is  worse  than  ever;  and  her  side! — I 
wonder  you  people  stand  it." 

"Well,  yon  see,  she's  Lady  Holbrook's  cousin,  and 
Skarne  Park  is  the  only  big  house  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  you  know  how  ridiculous  people  are  in  small  rural 
communities.  The  Redwoods  are  'service,'  too,  and  the 
rest  of  us  very  small  fry." 

"My  dear,  Colonel  Redwood  is  only  A.S.C.,  simply 
nothing!  —  looking  after  the  stores  and  washing  the 
mules'  faces,  and.  so  on.  The  A.S.C.  is  called  the  'muck 
train'  in  the  army  slang." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  count  with  the  troglodytes," 
laughed  Dolly;  "in  unfashionable  watering-places  a 
Colonel  is  a  Colonel  and  thought  a  great  deal  of." 

"It  must  be  a  nice  change  for  them.  In  India  he 
would  be  nobody;  it's  trains  that  matter  there,  and  so 
of  course  the  Civil  Service  leads  society.  Oh,  there's 
Minna  blinking  at  me ;  she  wants  to  go.  Good-bye,  Mrs. 
Faithf ull ;  we  must  meet  again.  So  glad  to  have  lighted 
on  you  to-day."  Charmingly  graceful,  she  flashed 
away,  leaving  envy  in  Dolly's  heart. 

As  soon  as  the  Skarne  Park  carriage  had  driven  off, 
Mrs.  Redwood  descended  on  Dolly,  neighing  vivaciously. 
"I  saw  Kate  Darner  talkin'  to  you — scandal  as  usual,  I 
suppose?  No!  As  a  rule,  that's  all  she  can  talk  about. 
I'm  surprised  my  cousin  stands  her.  They're  simply 
nobody  in  Indiah,  you  know  —  Mr.  Darner  is  only 
P.W.D." 

"What's  that?— Partially  Wed-Ded,  or  Pretty  Well 
Damned?"  asked  Jocelyn,  who  had  hastened  to  Dolly's 
side  on  Mrs.  Darner's  departure.  Dolly  also  looked 
inquiring. 

"Public  Works  Department,"  explained  Mrs.  Red- 
wood condescendingly,  reminding  herself  that  these 
middle-class  provincials  could  not  possibly  be  expected 
to  understand  the  shibboleth  of  the  elect;  "and  of 
course  in  Indiah  especially  the  service  people  take  the 
lead,"  she  concluded. 


248  DOWNWARD 

"But  I  thought  Mr.  Darner  was  Civil  Service?"  said 
Joeelyn  with  assumed  innocence. 

"My  deah  Doctah,  when  I  say  service,  I  mean  of 
course  the  Army!"  She  gave  the  concluding  words 
markedly  capital  letters. 

"But  I  thought  the  Navy  was  called  the  Senior 
Service?" 

"Er — er — ye-es,  but  it's  merely  a  form,  a  survival. 
The  phrase  'in  the  service'  is  always  taken  to  mean 
Army;  you  surely  know  that!" 

"The  suns  of  Indiah  certainly  affect  the  sense  of 
humour,"  whispered  Joeelyn  as  Mrs.  Redwood  swept 
away,  distinctly  ruffled. 


VII 

THAT  evening,  when  she  had  finished  her  light  supper, 
Dolly  sat  down  in  her  little  drawing-room  to  write  to 
her  friend  Mary  Clifford. 

"  'The  House  of  Good  Hope.' 
"Wylton,  Skarne, 

"  March  28. 
"DEAREST  CLIFF, 

"My  Keddy  is  sleeping  the  sleep  of  a  baby-cherub. 
Elizabeth  the  Peerless  dozes  over  the  kitchen  fire;  not  a 
sound  can  be  heard  in  the  house,  but  outside  the  wind  is 
doing  its  worst,  and  you  know  what  our  wind  can  do. 
And  in  Dolly's  heart  fires  are  burning  and  storms  rag- 
ing— fires  I  thought  long  quenched  and  storms  I  fancied 
forever  stilled. 

"I'm  getting  quite  poetical,  you  11  be  thinking!  Oh, 
Cliff,  I  feel  so  wild  and  restless — it's  years  since  the 
spring  has  unsettled  me  so.  I  thought  I  would  work  it 
off  a  bit  by  writing  to  you. 

"It's  a  man,  of  course,  or  rather  men.  There  are  now 
two  men  on  my  horizon — extraordinary  for  this  for- 
saken village.  One  is  Arthur  Jocelyn,  whom  you  met 
when  you  came  down  last.  Since  then,  as  I've  told  you, 
we  have  become  very  friendly,  and  he  has  been  really  a 
godsend  to  me  in  many  ways.  His  intentions,  however, 
are  strictly  dishonourable,  unless  I  have  lost  my  former 
nice  discernment  in  these  matters.  I  only  want  him  as  a 
friend,  so  his  said  intentions  don't  worry  me,  except  in 
so  far  as  they  may  interfere  with  our  friendship,  but  I 
think  I  can  manage  to  avert  any  fatal  declaration.  He 's 
tried  more  than  once  already. 

"The  other  man  is  the  Norse  King.     Since   I  last 
wrote  I've  got  to  know  him  and  we've  become  tremen- 
249 


250  DOWNWARD 

dons  friends;  it's  only  a  little  over  three  weeks,  but  it 
seems  ages,  and,  anyway,  we're  in  love  with  each  other. 
At  least,  I  know  he  is  and  I  think  I  am.  He 's  a  splendid 
fellow,  not  only  good-looking,  but  so  kind  and  charming, 
and  he  must  have  a  great  heart,  as  he  devotes  his  life 
and  income  entirely  to  philanthropic  works.  He  was  on 
the  London  County  Council,  but  lost  his  seat  when  the 
Moderates  came  in.  He  takes  a  great  interest  in  rescue 
work,  but  his  special  craze  is  School  Board  improvement, 
from  the  hygienic  and  spiritual  point  of  view.  He  talks 
a  great  deal  about  it  and  at  first  it  rather  bored  me,  but 
he's  succeeded  in  interesting  me  now,  and  it  has  shown 
me  what  a  very  good  and  unselfish  man  he  is. 

"  Cliff,  dear,  what  I  do  want  is  a  husband !  There,  it's 
out!  You  won't  be  shocked,  I  know.  You  11  probably 
smile  and  say  it's  a  want  shared  by  many  thousands  (or 
is  it  millions?)  of  women  in  this  out- manned  country. 

"You  are  such  a  dear,  comfy,  understanding  creature, 
you  won't  mistake  my  meaning,  I  know.  What  I  need  is 
a  man's  friendly  companionship,  a  man's  affectionate 
admiration,  a  man  to  do  things  with — in  short,  a  com- 
rade. Yes,  and  a  lover,  too,  and  in  a  sense  a  mate.  I 
want  a  man  to  share  my  life  with.  I  'm  so  tired  of  being 
alone. 

' '  I  know  it 's  shameful  of  me  to  be  discontented.  I  've 
got  a  lovely  boy,  and  an  income,  a  charming  home,  fresh 
air  and  country  surroundings.  But  passionately  as  I 
love  my  child,  I  feel  that  at  any  rate  while  he 's  so  young 
I  want  some  one  else  to  live  with.  As  Jocelyn  said  the 
other  day,  a  woman  cannot  live  by  the  mother-passion 
alone,  except  in  the  New  Drama.  There,  and  occasion- 
ally among  the  extremest  cranks,  one  hears  of  women 
who  want  children  but  not  husbands,  but  I  'm  not  abnor- 
mal in  any  way,  and  I  want  the  trinity  of  humanity,  the 
ordinary  domestic  joys.  I've  quite  foregone  my  dreams 
of  a  stage  career,  a  brilliant  life  in  the  public  eye. 
Motherhood,  too,  isn't  satisfying  with  only  one  child. 
Every  time  I  cut  Ked's  curls  I  long  for  a  little  girl 
whose  curls  need  never  be  cut — I  dream  of  a  little 


DOWNWARD  251 

daughter,  with  dewy  eyes  and  long,  silky  hair,  and  a 
little  brother  for  Keds  as  well.  One  seems  a  very  poor- 
sized  family ;  the  joy  I  have  in  my  child  makes  me  often 
feel  what  a  pity  it  is  not  in  duplicate,  to  multiply  that 
joy. 

"As  for  my  leisure,  I'm  sick  of  it.  I  long  for  work; 
I  want  to  mix  in  the  world  again  and  meet  vital  men  and 
women  like  the  two  or  three  who  have  lately  drifted 
down  here  and  so  unsettled  me.  I  met  such  a  pretty 
woman  this  afternoon,  a  Mrs.  Darner.  She  was  so  sweet 
and  smart  and  gay,  she  made  me  feel  how  quickly  my 
youth  is  going — wasted! 

"Keddy  wants  a  man  to  live  with  too.  It  isn't  good 
for  a  child  to  be  entirely  in  the  hands  of  women.  I've 
tried  to  be  father  and  mother  to  him,  but  I  feel  my  limi- 
tations more  as  he  grows  older.  He  is  so  pleased  when 
he  gets  a  game  with  a  man.  Godwin  and  he  are  great 
pals,  and  Godwin  with  his  large-heartedness  and  high 
moral  sense  will  make  a  splendid  father  for  my  boy.  I 
want  the  help  of  a  wise  and  good  man,  or  he  may  turn 
out  just  like  Theo. 

"And  so,  Cliff,  in  short,  if  Godwin  asks  me  to  be  his 
wife,  I  shall  accept  him.  And  I  shan't  tell  him  my 
secret.  I  know  you  think  this  wrong,  we've  discussed 
the  ethics  of  it  so  often,  but  as  I've  often  told  you  I 
hold  that  all  should  keep  the  details  of  their  wild  oats 
severely  to  themselves. 

"I  know  what  thought  will  at  once  rise  in  your  mind 
— Dacre;  but  don't  let's  go  into  all  that  again.  I've 
told  you  over  and  over  again  that  you  're  quite  mistaken 
in  your  idea  that  Dacre  would  like  to  marry  me.  I 
know  I  have  his  devoted  affection,  but  he  doesn't  care 
for  me  a  bit  in  that  way.  If  he  did,  surely  he  would 
have  said  so  in  these  four  years,  if  not  before.  And 
though  he  knows  how  deadly  it  is  here  in  winter,  and 
how  much  I  depend  on  his  coming  down  frequently,  yet 
he's  gone  abroad  for  four  whole  months,  and  I've 
scarcely  had  a  line  from  him.  No  man  in  love  would 
do  that,  now  wotdd  he  ? 


252  DOWNWARD 

"I've  stopped  to  think  a  bit.  ...  Of  course  if  Dacre 
did  by  any  chance  ask  me,  it  would  be  very  difficult  to 
know  what  to  do.  Of  course,  if  it  came  to  the  point  I'd 
really  rather  marry  him — I'd  be  happier  with  him  cer- 
tainly; there  never  was  a  man  so  absolutely  perfect 
before,  was  there? — and  we've  been  friends  for  fifteen 
years,  and  he  knows  my  secrets  too  —  all  would  be 
straightforward  and  above  board. 

"After  all,  I've  only  known  Godwin  three  weeks,  and 
though  I've  got  that  lovely,  thrilly  feeling  that  makes 
me  blush  like  a  fool  when  he  approaches,  still — I  know 
how  quickly  that  wears  off.  And  he  sometimes  does 
seem  rather  a  prig,  rather  strait-laced  too.  I  can't  be 
really  natural  with  him  as  I  can  with  Dacre.  But  I've 
never  looked  on  Dacre  even  as  a  possible  lover;  he's 
more  like  a  father  to  me,  though  he's  only  fifteen  years 
my  senior. 

"Oh,  well,  it  isn't  really  difficult  after  all,  as  you're 
quite  wrong  about  Dacre.  He'll  never  ask  me,  so  I've 
no  need  to  bother  about  whom  I'll  choose.  Godwin 
probably  will,  and  I  shall  say  'yes.' 

' '  In  any  case,  I  've  got  to  get  back  to  the  world  again. 
D'you  grasp  that,  my  friend?  I  can't  stand  this  back- 
water of  life  any  longer.  If  I  don't  marry  Godwin,  I 
shall  try  and  let  'Good  Hope'  for  the  summer,  and 
Keddy  and  I  will  go  forth  to  find  other  fortunes.  He 
is  older  now  and  so  much  more  robust  that  I  don't  think 
his  health  will  suffer  from  the  change. 

"Now,  instead  of  calming  me,  writing  this  letter  has 
stirred  me  up  worse  than  ever.  All  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
all  the  fires  of  Hell  don't  seem  enough  to  express  my 
unrest.  Outside  the  wind  is  shrieking  around  the  cliffs 
like  mad.  I  shall  go  out  and  fight  with  it,  and  leap 
about  on  the  Down  to  shake  off  the  seven  devils  that 
possess  me.  Good  night,  Cliff  dearest. 

"YOUR  DOLLY." 

"P.S. — I  don't  like  his  under-lip  (Godwin's) ;  other- 
wise his  exterior  is  perfect — for  a  fair  man." 


DOWNWARD  253 

Buttoned  up  to  her  neck  in  her  thickest  overcoat,  a 
white  shawl  tied  over  her  head,  Dolly  struggled  along 
the  cliff  in  the  teeth  of  the  howling  wind.  She  felt 
exhilarated  by  the  sound  of  it,  like  shrieks  from  a  thou- 
sand throats,  and  by  the  dull  booming  roar  of  the  waves 
below.  One  of  Jocelyn's  absurd  stories  occurred  to  her. 
A  noted  explorer  when  travelling  with  his  wife  in  the 
Saharan  desert  was  caught  in  one  of  the  terrible  siroc- 
cos. He  remarked:  "By  Jove,  Maria,  it's  worse  than 
Skarne  Bay!"  Dolly  laughed  to  herself.  Fascinated 
by  the  sound  of  her  own  laugh  amongst  the  din,  she 
laughed  aloud  again  and  again  in  her  exultation,  fling- 
ing up  her  head  to  the  rough  embrace  of  the  wind.  Then 
the  clouds  that  obscured  the  moon  suddenly  rolled  away, 
and  revealed  to  her  another  solitary  figure,  a  man  stag- 
gering along  with  bowed  head  a  little  distance  off. 

She  checked  her  laughter  and  awaited  rather  curiously 
the  stranger's  approach.  "I  hope  it  isn't  Arthur,"  she 
thought.  "I  feel  too  hysterical  for  one  of  his  scenes, 
and  he  would  be  sure  to  make  one — meeting  me  in  these 
circumstances,  after  this  afternoon."  As  they  came 
abreast  both  looked  up.  The  wind  caught  the  light 
shawl  on  Dolly's  head  and  tore  it  backwards,  uncovering 
her  golden  hair  and  excited  face. 

The  stranger  stopped  suddenly  and  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation. Dolly,  too,  stood  still  as  if  petrified,  staring 
horror-struck  into  the  face  of  Theo  Walter. 


vu 

"DOLLY!" 

"You!" 

For  a  few  minutes  they  could  find  no  other  words. 
Then  Dolly  said  in  a  low,  stern  voice : 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  What  do  you  mean  by 
following  me?" 

' '  I  never  dreamed  you  were  here — good  heavens !  why 
we've  taken  a  house  here  for  three  months." 

"What!  Helen's  here  too?"  She  glanced  panic- 
stricken  around,  as  if  she  expected  to  see  Helen  advanc- 
ing along  the  Downs.  "Why,  are  you  the  people  who've 
taken  the  Square  House?" 

Theo's  words  were  lost  in  the  great  rush  of  wind 
which  nearly  flung  them  both  off  their  feet,  but  Dolly 
knew  the  answer  already.  She  was  recalling  the  gossip 
of  this  afternoon — Miss  Sapper  had  got  the  name  wrong, 
of  course  —  just  like  a  news-agency.  "Waller"  —  the 
young  man  who  looked  like  a  poet — the  musical  instru- 
ments, the  piano  that  had  been  sent  from  town — the  wife 
under  care  of  a  specialist.  It  had  been  Theo  she  had 
seen  in  the  morning,  walking  so  near  her  house.  .  .  . 

' '  Can 't  we  get  out  of  this  wind  a  minute  ? "  he  shouted 
to  her.  "I  must  speak  to  you." 

Dolly  looked  up  and  down  the  cliff:  the  nearest  shel- 
ter was  a  mile  away  at  the  end  of  the  asphalt  esplanade 
at  Skarne.  There  were  a  few  seats  along  the  downs,  but 
nowhere  affording  the  slightest  cover  or  protection  from 
the  wind. 

"I  suppose  that's  a  private  house?"  Theo  indicated 
the  lights  of  "Good  Hope,"  a  few  yards  away. 

"That's  my  house,"  said  Dolly.  She  hesitated  a 
minute  and  then  led  the  way  to  it  without  another  word. 
254 


VIII 

ON  tiptoe,  stealthily  like  a  thief,  Dolly  entered  her 
home,  followed  by  Theo.  The  lounge  was  almost  in 
darkness.  She  pulled  up  the  by-pass  of  the  incandescent 
light  and  stood  listening  a  second.  All  was  quiet  but 
for  the  sound  of  Elizabeth's  rhythmic  snores.  Reas- 
sured, she  went  quickly  across  the  hall  and  jealously 
shut  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  child  was  sleeping. 

How  frightfully  thrilling  it  was — this  unexpected  ad- 
venture. She  unbuttoned  her  thick  ulster  and  threw  it 
down  on  the  oak  settle.  Her  eyes  glittered  and  her 
pulses  throbbed  as  she  took  the  shawl  from  her  head 
and  mechanically  thrust  her  fingers  through  her  aureole 
of  golden  hair.  Theo  stood  by  the  hearth,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  portrait  of  Dacre.  Dolly  took  the  opportunity  of 
observing  him. 

In  the  inner  chamber  of  her  heart  she  had  retained 
an  ardent  memory  of  a  handsome,  lithe  youth,  interest- 
ingly pale,  with  a  god-like  brow  and  passionate  green 
eyes  that  fascinated  equally  whether  they  glowered  sul- 
lenly or  were  lit  up  with  an  irresistible  smile.  His  dark 
hair  invited  a  woman's  caressing  fingers;  his  voice  could 
woo  wondrously;  the  touch  of  his  lips  was  unforget- 
able  fire.  It  was  a  florid  portrait,  and  probably  had 
represented  him  at  no  time.  But  now  she  saw  him  as  he 
really  was.  His  hair,  a  little  long  and  disordered  by 
the  wind,  made  no  appeal  to  her:  that  poetical  pallor 
now  seemed  merely  the  sickly  pallidness  of  the  town- 
dweller  ;  there  were  premature  lines  of  discontent  on  his 
face ;  his  mouth  looked  weak  and  had  acquired  a  peevish 
droop.  The  graceful,  slim  lines  which  his  figure  still 
retained  were  hidden  by  the  heavy  overcoat,  and  beside 
the  memory  of  Godwin  Leigh,  he  appeared  a  poor  speci- 
men of  a  man.  Only  his  fine  eyes  retained  their  charm, 
255 


256  DOWNWARD 

and  they  too  were  altered  by  the  deep  melancholy  which 
had  become  their  habitual  expression.  Although  only 
thirty,  he  looked  already  a  disappointed,  disheartened 
man.  Fire  had  gone  out  of  him. 

Before  this  saddened,  uninspiring  presence  Dolly's 
excitement  abated,  and  a  feeling  of  chilled  disappoint- 
ment came  over  her.  She  realized  as  so  many  women 
have  done  that  the  uttermost  blunder  of  love  is  the 
meeting  of  old  lovers.  This  mistake  had  cost  her  a  pre- 
cious memory,  which  is  an  irreparable  loss  to  a  woman. 

She  signed  to  him  to  come  into  the  little  drawing- 
room  that  they  might  have  greater  freedom  of  speech. 
The  galling  thought  struck  her  that,  perhaps,  he  too  was 
realizing  the  blunder,  but  his  first  remark  was: 

"I'd  forgotten  how  beautiful  you  were,  Dolly." 

Secretly  delighted,  she  replied  coldly:  "I  don't  want 
you  to  talk  like  that,  please.  I've  let  you  into  my  house 
at  this  late  hour" — for  the  first  time  the  indiscretion  of 
the  proceeding  occurred  to  her,  and  there  was  a  slightly 
anxious  note  in  her  voice  as  she  continued — "  because, 
as  we've  met,  it's  necessary  we  should  settle  one  or  two 
things.  But  let  us  waste  no  time.  If  you  and  your  wife 
are  settled  here  for  three  months,  then  of  course  I  must 
go."  She  checked  his  attempt  at  remonstrance:  "No, 
I  couldn't  possibly  stay,  I  couldn't  bear  to  meet  Helen. 
Perhaps  you  don't  know  how  often  she's  tried  to  get  in 
touch  with  me  during  these  years. ' ' 

"I  never  knew  that." 

"It  isn't  likely  she'd  mention  it,  but  she  was  afraid 
things  would  have  gone  badly  with  me  and  I  might  be 
poor  and  suffering.  She  'd  heard  about  my  trouble,  you 
see,  at  Meredith  House — everybody  knew.  She  wanted 
to  offer  me  help  and  it  hurt  her  badly  when  at  last  Nurse 
Clifford  had  to  tell  her  that  I  wouldn't  meet  her,  though 
she  was  glad  to  hear  I  wanted  for  nothing.  I  —  I 
couldn't  face  her  now;  she  would  be  sure  to  guess  the 
truth." 

Theo  looked  upon  the  ground.  Evidently  he  found  it 
difficult  to  meet  her  eyes — a  dull  flush  momentarily  suf- 


DOWNWARD  257 

fused  his  pallor.  "I— I  don't  like  to  think  of  your 
leaving  because  of  us,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  too  glad  of  an  excuse!" 

"Aren't  you  happy  here,  Dolly?" 

"Rapturously  happy,"  she  answered,  bitterly. 
"Haven't  I  everything  to  make  me  so?  But — tell  me 
about  Helen.  Is  it  true  that  she's  an  invalid?" 

The  man  sighed  heavily.  "Poor  girl,  she  is  very 
nearly.  Fate  has  been  very  rough  on  us.  Helen's  god- 
mother, Lady  Merioneth,  died  the  year  after  we  were 
married  and  left  her  a  lot  of  money.  All  my  invest- 
ments have  prospered  too.  I  know  nothing  about  busi- 
ness, but  my  broker  is  a  genius  and  everything  he's 
touched  for  me  has  turned  into  gold.  It's  been  the  same 
with  Helen's  money  —  we  grow  richer  every  year.  I 
started  a  newspaper,  by  way  of  something  to  do,  a 
weekly  review — Letters — perhaps  you've  heard  of  it?" 

4 '  I  hear  of  nothing  in  this  place. ' ' 

"Well,  even  that's  prospered — the  unlikeliest  thing. 
But  it's  so  strange,  we  can  do  nothing  with  our  money. 
Helen's  ill-health  keeps  her  always  in  retirement,  and 
then  you  see — we  have  no  children." 

His  last  words  were  almost  a  whisper.  Dolly  thought 
again  of  what  Miss  Sapper  had  said.  She  asked,  gently : 

"Is  that  why  Helen's  health ?" 

"Yes,  poor  darling,  it's  only  that.  She's  had  such 
terrible  times  and  she 's  lost  all  three  of  the  babies.  This 
last  trouble  almost  broke  her  heart." 

"And  you ?" 

' '  Oh,  I  sometimes  feel  I  'd  give  my  soul  if  Helen  could 
have  a  living  child!" 

Dolly  hardened  her  heart. 

"So  you  want  a  child  now?"  she  said,  cruelly;  but 
she  was  sorry  the  next  minute  when  she  saw  the  pain 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  know  I  didn't  behave  well  to  you,  Dolly,"  he  an- 
swered, "but,  by  God,  I've  been  punished  for  it!  And 
it's  such  a  curious  irony — our  money  and  our  childless- 
ness— when  you  think  that  it  was  my  fear  of  being  poor, 


258  DOWNWARD 

of  hurting  Helen  and  of  the  responsibility  of  a  child  that 
stood  between  you  and  me.  I've  got  what  I  prized — 
money,  and  I  haven 't  got  what  I  dreaded — a  child.  But 
Helen's  heart  is  broken." 

Dolly  was  silent.  Theo  seemed  to  find  a  relief  in 
speech.  He  continued,  still  in  the  same  low  voice : 

"And  she's  been  such  an  angel  about  it  all.  She 
doesn't  know,  of  course,  that  I  blame  myself  for  every- 
thing. She's  been  the  most  wonderful  wife  a  man's  ever 
had;  she's  changed  all  my  ideas;  it's  she  who's  taught 
me  what  a  brute  I've  been.  I  never  dreamed  such 
women  existed !  And  she 's  borne  her  horrible  sufferings 
and  crushing  disappointments  without  a  complaint,  but 
her  hair's  quite  gray,  Dolly,  though  she's  only  thirty- 
three." 

"Poor  Helen,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  always  thought  of  her 
as  happy  and  of  you  as  tremendously  successful,  with 
everything  you  wanted." 

"That's  the  irony  of  it — we've  everything  we  want 
except  one  thing,  and  the  loss  of  that  embitters  all  the 
rest  to  Helen.  There  is  a  curse  on  me.  I  could  bear 
everything  except  the  knowledge  that  Helen's  being 
punished  for  my  fault.  That's  where  the  sword  enters 
my  heart." 

Dolly  was  thinking :  "I  seem  to  have  had  the  best  of 
it  after  all.  And  I  've  got  the  boy. ' ' 

Theo's  eyes  had  been  caught  by  the  portraits  of 
Keddy  with  which  the  walls  were  covered.  His  eyes 
went  from  one  to  another;  then  he  got  up  and  exam- 
ined them  closely. 

"Is  it — the  child?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

"Our  son,"  said  Dolly,  and  as  she  spoke  a  sudden 
anger  flamed  up  in  her  mind  and  made  her  long  to  strike 
this  man  in  the  face.  She  would  like  to  have  refused  his 
hesitating  request  to  see  the  child,  but  for  very  pride  in 
her  darling  she  could  not.  But  she  made  Theo  go  by 
himself;  she  felt  it  would  be  unbearable  to  stand  by 
Keddy 's  bedside  with  his  father,  the  man  whose  fault 
had  made  so  great  a  difference  to  the  little  life. 


DOWNWARD  259 

It  seemed  a  long  time  whilst  she  waited  alone.  At 
last  Theo  came  back  and  sat  down  beside  her.  His  face 
was  working ;  Dolly  looked  away. 

"He's  got  a  deep  dimple  in  his  chin,  exactly  like 
mine,"  said  the  man,  unsteadily.  "And  his  right 
thumb  is  actually  double- jointed  like  mine." 

Dolly  answered :  "  He  'a  exactly  like  you  when  he 's 
asleep." 

"You  see  it  too,  then?  It  was  a  great  shock  to  me. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  Nature  is !  ~He — he— Dolly  !— 
he's  got  a  wooden  horse  on  the  bed.  ..." 

' '  I  know ;  that 's  his  great  friend — he  won 't  go  to  sleep 
without  it." 

"What  a  dear  chap — how  Helen  would  adore  him! 
Oh,  if  we  had  a  boy  like  that — my  God,  my  God ! ' ' 

He  put  his  head  down  on  his  hands.  Dolly  felt  in 
that  moment  she  was  amply  avenged.  Her  warm- 
hearted nature  made  her  very  sorry  for  Theo  and  re- 
gretful that  she  had  felt  so  bitter  against  him.  Since 
the  day  of  Keddy's  sudden  illness,  she  had  kept  brandy 
in  the  house,  although  she  had  a  peculiar  prejudice 
against  spirits,  inherited  from  her  mother.  She  pressed 
a  brandy  and  soda  on  Theo  now,  and  talked  brightly  to 
him  while  she  mixed  the  drink,  doing  her  utmost  to  put 
heart  into  him.  After  all,  he  had  only  been  married  four 
years,  she  reminded  him,  and  then,  too,  he  and  Helen 
were  first  cousins.  It  was  a  mistake  to  let  himself  get 
morbid  as  to  the  cause  of  their  childlessness.  Let  Helen 
get  well  first,  and  then  see.  .  .  .  And  if  Sir  Buller 
Westlake  couldn't  put  her  right,  why  not  try  Lorne- 
Seymour — a  most  successful  man — or  Walter  Gordon, 
the  "Guinea-Grabber,"  was  very  clever.  And  when  the 
bracing  winds  of  Skarne  had  done  their  work,  let  him 
take  Helen  to  Aix  in  May  and  later  to  the  Engadine. 

Dolly  exerted  all  her  great  personal  charm  to  soothe 
and  cheer  the  unhappy  man,  whom  strange  chance  had 
sent  her  as  a  guest  that  night.  Presently  the  subject  of 
his  trouble  was  dropped  and  he  found  himself  talking 
animatedly,  inspired  by  her  kindliness  and  charm. 


260  DOWNWARD 

Dolly  forgot  the  feeling  of  dislike  he  had  first  aroused 
in  her  and  had  ceased  even  to  think  of  their  tragic  re- 
lationship. For  the  time  being  he  was  merely  a  stricken 
fellow-creature  who  needed  a  helping  hand. 

It  was  an  evil  fate  that  turned  her  very  goodness  into 
a  weapon  against  her.  Arthur  Jocelyn  happened  to  be 
walking  home  along  the  cliff-path,  from  a  smoking- 
concert  in  Skarne.  Seeing  a  light  in  Dolly's  front  room, 
he  went  up  to  the  window,  meaning  to  knock  upon  it, 
partly  from  a  mischievous  desire  to  startle  her  as  he  had 
done  before  and  partly  because  he  wanted  her  to  put  her 
head  out  of  the  window  and  talk  to  him  for  a  few 
minutes. 

His  footfalls  made  no  sound  upon  the  grass,  but 
before  he  had  time  to  knock  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
into  the  room  between  the  carelessly  drawn  casement 
curtains  .  .  . 

He  stood  as  if  petrified — Dolly  and  a  strange  man — at 
this  hour  of  the  night !  He  looked  at  his  watch — nearly 
twelve  o'clock.  .  .  .  Good  heavens,  it  was  the  fellow 
from  Square  House — an  absolute  stranger  to  her !  And 
they  were  talking  quite  cheerily  together,  their  chairs 
close  together  .  .  .  and  she  was  giving  him  a  drink, 
actually ! 

He  strode  away,  rage  and  disgust  in  his  heart. 
Strange  to  say,  the  detail  of  the  drink  rankled  most  of 
all. 

"I  always  had  to  fetch  my  own  whisky,"  his  angry 
thoughts  ran.  "She  professed  to  have  an  objection  to 
keeping  alcohol  in  the  house.  Yet  she's  got  it  for 
him  .  .  .  and  after  all  the  fuss  she  made  the  other  night 
about  my  staying  late!  By  Jove,  he's  a  married  man, 
too,  with  a  sick  wife  .  .  .  and  she  can't  know  him  .  .  . 
she  must  have  picked  him  up  on  the  cliff,  without  an 
introduction.  A  regular  bad  lot,  not  worth  a  thought, 
by  Jove!  By  Jove!  I'll  go  home  to-morrow  morning, 
damned  if  I  don't!  I  ought  to  have  been  at  work  these 
three  weeks  past;  it  was  only  on  her  account  I  stayed. 
Curse  her — how  she's  taken  me  in!" 


IX 

A  FEW  minutes  after  Jocelyn  had  passed  Theo  rose  to 
go.  "Thank  you  for  all  your  goodness,  Dolly,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  know  what  you've  done  for  me.  I'm  glad 
I  met  you." 

"I'm  glad  too,"  Dolly  answered,  but  she  did  not  add 
the  thought  in  her  mind:  "I'm  glad  because,  though 
this  meeting  has  spoiled  the  ardent  memory  so  dear  to 
me,  it  has  also  laid  the  ghost  of  a  dead  romance — a  pain- 
ful inhabitant  for  a  woman's  heart."  She  gave  him  her 
hand  frankly.  How  strange  and  prosaic  it  was  that  she 
should  shake  hands  with  Keddy's  father  thus  indiffer- 
ently. It  was  extraordinary  how  completely  his  charm 
for  her  had  vanished;  she  thought  how  many  poignant 
moments  she  might  have  been  spared  in  these  years 
could  she  have  seen  him  as  she  now  did. 

Aloud  she  said :  ' '  Now,  go  home  and  start  afresh,  and 
be  happy  and  make  Helen  happy.  It's  frightfully  late, 
by  the  way.  Will  she  have  been  anxious  about  you  ? ' ' 

"No,  she  was  asleep  when  I  came  out,  and  she  has  a 
nurse  in  her  room.  But,  Dolly — you'll  let  me  see  you 
again,  as  you're  not  leaving  for  another  week." 

"No,  Theo,  I  can't  do  that,  not  on  any  account — our 
paths  lie  in  different  ways.  I  would  leave  the  place 
to-morrow,  only  it  isn't  convenient  for  a  week  or  so,  as 
I  told  you." 

"You  11  let  me  see  the  boy?"  he  pleaded.  "I  want  to 
see  him  awake  and  hear  him  talk." 

"No,  still  less  that.  I  don't  want  him  to  know  you. 
I'm  sorry  if  it  hurts  you,  but  it's  best  so.  What  would 
Helen  think  if  she  saw  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Helen  mustn't  see  him.  .  .  .  Are  his  eyea  like 
mine?" 

261 


262  DOWNWARD 

"No,  like  mine;  so  awake  the  resemblance  is  not  so 
marked.  And  now  you  really  must  leave  me — it's  a 
good  thing  I've  no  neighbours  quite  near,  or  my  reputa- 
tion would  be  gone  forever." 

"Good  night,  Dolly.  God  bless  you!"  He  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips. 

"Good-bye,  Theo.     Good  luck." 

She  shut  the  front  door  and  went  straight  to  her  bed- 
room, where  the  little  boy  was  sleeping  calmly.  She 
hung  over  his  cot  and  devoured  him  with  her  eyes. 

"1  won't  share  you  with  any  one,  my  darling,"  she 
murmured;  "you're  mine — mine  only!  I've  paid  dearly 
for  you,  and  no  one  else  shall  have  you. ' ' 

She  remembered  that  Theo  had  given  her  no  under- 
taking not  to  try  and  see  her  or  the  child  again.  The 
thought  made  her  uneasy,  yet  she  felt  strangely  re- 
luctant to  leave  Wylton  before  Leigh's  departure.  It 
would  be  so  likely  for  him  to  misunderstand  her  going. 
He  might  even  think  she  wished  to  avoid  him.  It  might 
spoil  everything. 

Her  excitement  had  now  subsided  and  gave  place  to  a 
boundless  melancholy.  She  shivered  as  she  lay  wakeful 
in  bed,  listening  to  the  eternal  wind.  "Why  does  he 
come  into  my  life  again  just  now?"  she  thought,  "now, 
when  the  outlook  is  brightening  at  last?  It's  a  bad 
thing  for  me,  it  will  bring  me  ill-luck.  I  won't  see  him 
again — I  won't!" 

Then  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  with  a  pang  of 
horror  that  Theo  might  well  claim  the  right  to  visit  her 
if  he  chose.  She  had  entirely  forgotten  for  the  time 
being  that  the  money  paid  quarterly  into  her  account 
by  Hamilton's  firm  came  from  Theo.  She  reflected  now 
that  her  daily  bread  and  the  child's,  their  clothes,  all 
their  comforts  were  bought  with  Theo's  money,  and  the 
idea  was  unspeakably  bitter.  "What  a  fool  I  should 
have  looked  if  he  had  reminded  me,"  she  thought,  "as 
another  sort  of  man  might  have  done !"  It  was  a  relief 
tp  remember  that  the  house  belonged  to  Dacre  and  the 
Been  his  gift.  She4  tried  to  r'emind  herself 


DOWNWARD  268 

of  all  the  logical  and  well-grounded  reasons  for  her  ac- 
cepting Theo's  allowance,  but  though  common  sense 
told  her  she  was  right — nevertheless  some  subtle  spiri- 
tual influence  made  her  feel  indescribably  degraded. 
She  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

For  the  next  few  days  she  confined  her  walks  to  the 
back  garden  and  sent  Keddy  out  in  charge  of  Gertrude, 
the  young  girl  who  came  to  help  in  the  mornings.  They 
were  very  dull  days,  and  though  Dolly  was  thankful  to 
hear  nothing  from  Theo,  she  missed  her  meetings  with 
Leigh  at  the  golf  club  and  was  indignantly  surprised 
that  Jocelyn  left  her  alone.  They  had  been  accustomed 
to  meet  almost  daily. 

When  Miss  Sapper  dropped  in  to  tea  on  the  third 
afternoon,  she  was  flattered  at  the  warmth  of  her  wel- 
come. Dolly  was  hurt  at  hearing  the  news  of  Jocelyn 's 
sudden  departure.  What  could  have  induced  him  to  go 
off  like  that  without  a  word?  she  wondered,  and  con- 
sidering how  far  she  had  confided  in  him,  his  unfriendly 
conduct  caused  her  some  uneasiness. 


"  MUMMA,  may  I  have  my  toys  now?" 

No  answer.  Keddy  peered  anxiously  through  the  bars 
of  his  cot,  but  all  that  was  visible  of  his  mother  was  a 
glimpse  of  rumpled  golden  hair.  How  dreadfully  lazy 
grown-ups  were,  sleeping  still  when  little  boys  had  been 
awake  for  hours  and  hours! 

"Mumma,"  said  the  patient  little  voice,  "please  may 
I  have  my  toys  now?" 

No  answer. 

"Mumma,  I  know  it's  sixerc'ock; ;  can  I  sit  up  now?" 

"Mumma,  do  wake  up !    I  are  so  tired  of  being  quiet. " 

"Mumma-a-a-a!" 

At  last  came  signs  of  life  in  the  other  bed ;  a  muffled 
voice  replied,  "S-sh,  goshleep  at  once!" 

"Oh,  mumma,  do  let  me  be  awake.  I  do  want  my  toys 
now." 

The  plaintive  request  could  not  be  disregarded  any 
longer.  Dolly's  face  emerged  from  the  bed-clothes  and 
she  opened  one  blue  eye.  "Baddest,  evillest,  sinfullest 
of  boy-fiends,"  she  murmured,  sleepily.  "Take  the  toys, 
only  be  quiet  for  heaven 's  sake ! ' ' 

"Mummy,  you  know  I  can't  reach  them!"  said 
Keddy,  reproachfully. 

Dolly  groaned,  sighed,  yawned,  then  leaned  out  and 
dragged  from  beneath  her  bed  a  wooden  box  about  two 
feet  square  in  which  was  a  heterogeneous  collection  of 
toys,  cards,  books,  paper  figures  with  roughly  inked 
faces,  a  lump  of  plasticine,  an  old  milk  can,  several 
pieces  of  wood  and  other  oddments  dear  to  Keddy 's 
heart,  which  constituted  his  morning  playthings.  This 
box  the  child  received  with  an  angelic  smile. 
264 


DOWNWARD  265 

"Now  my  dlessing-gown,  mummy,"  lie  requested,  and 
Dolly — groaning  again  and  now  thoroughly  roused — 
knelt  upon  her  bed  and  helped  the  boy  into  the  small 
red  garment  which  hung  in  readiness  over  his  cot  rail. 

"Worst  and  wickedest  of  gnomes  and  goblins,"  she 
said,  as  she  finished  by  kissing  his  little  face  all  over.  ' '  I 
implore  you  to  play  quietly,  and  don't  allow  Bognor  to 
do  any  roaring,  and  don't  drop  anything  on  the  floor  as 
I  shall  not  pick  it  up.  Now  don't  speak  another  word; 
poor  mummy  will  die  if  she  doesn't  get  to  sleep  again." 

"I  won't  make  a  soun',  mumma,"  whispered  Keddy, 
confidentially,  "and  I  won't  allow  Bognor  to  rattle  the 
sojers  in  the  milk-can  nor  nothing!" 

Dolly  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  tried  to  renew 
the  magic  web  of  sleep  around  her  spirit.  Before,  how- 
ever, there  was  time  for  a  single  strand  to  be  woven, 
Keddy  pressed  his  face  against  the  cot  bars  and  said  in 
a  loud  whisper: 

' '  Mumma !  I  'm  not  really  a  bad,  sinf ullest  boy,  am  I  ? 
I'm  not  really  a  gnome  and  a  gobberling?  You're 
only  in  fun,  aren't  you,  mumma?  .  .  .  aren't  you, 
mumma? Mumma-a-a-a ! " 

"No,  no!"  replied  Dolly  in  despair;  "you're  an  angel, 
a  king's  son!  Of  course  I  was  in  fun,  but  do,  do  be 
quiet  now,  beloved,  or  mother  will  die." 

"Not  really  die,  mumma — not  die  ploperly?  Not  die- 
an'-go-to-God?"  inquired  Keddy  with  acute  anxiety. 

"Yes,  really  die!"  cried  Dolly,  emphatically. 

"Oh,  mumma,  I  don't  want  you  to  die  ploperly  yet." 
His  voice  indicated  that  a  howl  was  imminent.  Dolly 
hastened  to  reassure  him  as  to  her  intentions  of  lon- 
gevity. For  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence,  and  then 
Keddy  piped  again:  "Mummy,  when  you  do  die,  may 
I  have  your  big  black  cash-box,  the  one  what  locks  up  ? " 

"Yes." 

' '  And  may  I  have  your  snow  boots  to  play  giants  wiv 
every  day?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  the  big  tea-cosy  what  you  never  use?" 


266  DOWNWARD 

"Yes." 

"And  may  I  .  .  ." 

Dolly  raised  her  stern  face  from  the  pillows  and  con- 
fronted her  son. 

"Clifford,  if  you  speak  one  word  more  I'll  ring  for 
Elizabeth,  and  you  shall  get  up  at  once  and  have  the 
coldest  bath  possible,  with  absolutely  cold  water,  mind; 
and,  what's  more,  I'll  lock  Bognor  up  in  my  wardrobe 
for  the  whole  day.  I  mean  it!" 

At  this  dire  threat  Keddy's  flow  of  conversation  was 
at  last  quenched.  For  the  next  hour  silence  reigned, 
except  for  sundry  clatterings  with  the  contents  of  the 
box,  the  sound  of  mechanical  toys  being  wound  up,  and 
a  prolonged,  low  chanting  in  which  Bognor  was  in- 
formed, anthemwise,  of  Keddy's  plans  for  the  day. 
These  included  a  walk  with  mother  to  the  golf  club, 
a  hope  not  destined  to  be  realized,  for  the  eight  o'clock 
post  brought  Dolly  a  note  from  Godwin  Leigh  which 
made  her  kiss  her  child  rapturously  and  tell  him  he 
must  walk  again  with  Gertrude  that  morning  because 
mother  had  something  else  to  do.  As  Gertrude  allowed 
him  to  dawdle  along  the  roads  as  slowly  as  he  chose  and 
to  walk  luxuriously  in  the  thickest  mud,  Keddy  had  no 
objection  to  this  change  of  plan.  Moreover,  he  had  been 
promised  two  crackers  and  a  new  pencil  by  way  of  con- 
solation for  his  supposed  disappointment,  so  the  young 
man's  horizon  appeared  glowing  and  he  smiled  seraph- 
ically  when  Dolly,  absent-mindedly,  poured  an  extra 
large  supply  of  cream  on  his  porridge.  Her  own  break- 
fast remained  practically  untouched  while  she  read  and 
re-read  Godwin's  rather  stiff  little  note. 

"Skarne  Golf  Club, 

"Wednesday. 
"DEAR  MRS.  FAITHFULL, 

"As  my  presence  is  urgently  required  in  connexion 
with  the  new  plans  for  the  Open-Air  Schools  for  de- 
fective children  at  Hampstead,  I  find  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  take  the  extra  ten  days'  holiday  I  had  planned,  but 


DOWNWARD  267 

shall  have  to  return  to  town  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Will 
you  be  gracious  enough  to  let  me  see  as  much  as  possible 
of  you  in  the  rest  of  my  time  here.  I  want  a  long  talk 
with  you.  If  you  are  free  to-morrow  morning,  will  you 
come  for  a  walk  with  me,  say,  to  Wylvering  Towers  or 
wherever  else  you  choose.  J.  will  call  for  you  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  hope  of  your  being  able  to  come. 

"Yours,  GODWIN  LEIGH." 

Meals  with  Keddy  were  apt  to  be  prolonged  somewhat 
wearisomely  owing  to  the  share  partaken  of  them  by  the 
ubiquitous  Bognor.  The  wooden  horse  was  hoisted  on  a 
chair  on  Keddy 's  left  hand,  and  every  now  and  then 
spoonfuls  of  porridge,  egg,  etc.,  before  being  consumed 
by  the  boy,  were  held  for  a  minute  under  Bognor 's  nose 
to  the  great  detriment  of  the  table-cloth,  chair  and  car- 
pet, all  of  which  occasionally  received  portions  of  the 
animal's  ration.  Dolly  frequently  complained  bitterly 
of  the  general  undesirability  of  Bognor  as  a  table  com- 
panion, but  to-day  she  bore  everything  with  unruffled 
calm. 

To-day  Keddy  was  allowed  tea  in  his  milk;  unob- 
served he  took  extra  helpings  of  brown  sugar,  filled  his 
egg-shell  with  marmalade,  buried  the  corpses  of  bread 
soldiers  in  the  salt,  and  perpetrated  unspeakable  atroci- 
ties with  the  treacle — all  without  notice  or  rebuke. 

Dolly's  thoughts  were  far  away  as  she  sat  staring  at 
Leigh's  letter.  "The  first  half  is  in  his  platform  com- 
mittee manner,  which  I  don't  much  like,"  she  was  think- 
ing, "the  last  few  lines  are  in  his  other  manner,  which 
is  charming.  I  wonder  which  is  the  real  man,  which 
would  predominate  in  home  life?  I'm  sure  the  more 
natural  manner  is  really  he.  He  wouldn't  want  to  be 
platformy  at  home,  surely.  It's  strange  that  it's  only 
when  he  talks  about  his  work  that  he's  stiff  and  stilted. 
I  wonder  why?" 

"May  I  get  down,  mummy?"  asked  Keddy,  glancing 
apprehensively  at  the  wreck  about  him,  as  he  arranged 
soins  plates  to"  conceal  tUt  west  shocking  ptrrtitms  of  the 


268  DOWNWARD 

table-cloth.  Having  received  the  necessary  permission, 
he  put  his  fists  in  his  eyes  and  murmured:  "Thangord- 
fmygoodbreakfusahmen"  by  way  of  grace,  climbed  down 
from  his  chair,  laboriously  lifted  Bognor  from  his  and 
stole  off  with  unusual  quietness  to  play  in  the  darkest 
recesses  of  the  tool-shed,  until  his  malefactions  on  the 
table-cloth  should  be  safely  obliterated  by  the  process 
known  as  "clearing." 

Unheeding,  Dolly  sat  there,  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  far  green  rim  of  the  downs  where 
it  melted  into  the  greyish,  faintly  purple  sky  of  a  bleak 
March  day. 

"I  wonder  what  he  really  means,"  she  mused,  "and  if 
he  really  cares.  After  all,  I  don't  understand  men  as 
I  once  thought  I  did.  I  've  never  lived  in  the  same  house 
with  a  man,  not  even  a  father  or  brother.  I've  only 
known  them  intimately  under  abnormal  conditions, 
either  as  sick  patients  or  in  the  three  stages  of  affaires, 
'leading  up,'  'in  the  thick'  and  'backing  out,'  as  Brooky 
used  to  say.  Men  are  very  easy  for  a  moderately  clever 
woman  to  understand  once  she's  lost  all  her  illusions, 
but  it's  experience  of  them  in  ordinary  daily  life  that 
counts,  and  there  I'm  quite  ignorant.  Although  I've 
had  so  many  wooers,  until  I  met  Arthur  Jocelyn  I've 
never  in  my  life  had  a  man  friend,  with  the  exception 
of  Dacre,  and  he's  always  been  a  guide  and  consoler 
rather  than  a  playmate  and  chum  .  .  . 

"It  would  be  frightfully  thrilling  to  marry  Godwin, 
knowing  so  little  of  him,"  her  thoughts  ran  on.  "But, 
of  course,  it  would  be  mad.  Why,  I've  never  even  had  a 
meal  with  him,  and  think  what  an  enormous  difference 
a  man's  attitude  to  the  food  question  makes  in  a  home. 
If  breakfast  is  the  test  of  a  wife,  then  dinner  is  certainly 
the  test  of  a  husband.  ...  I  couldn't  bear  a  man  who 
fussed  over  food  or  knew  the  proper  sauce  for  every 
dish,  as  Colin  Lester  used  to.  And,  oh,  I'm  sure  I 
couldn't  live  with  a  man  who  wanted  whisky  every 
night.  ...  I  must  try  and  find  out  what  he  drinks  and 
when.  To  be  dependent  an  alcohol  for  one's  gaiety, 


DOWNWARD  269 

energy,  vigour — even  for  one's  wit,  like  the  men  we 
used  to  tour  with  in  the  old  days — what  could  be  more 
despicable?  Godwin,  my  heart,  I  hope  you're  almost  a 
teetotaler!" 

At  eleven  o'clock  Dolly  was  ready  dressed  in  her  neat 
country  clothes.  There  was  an  extra  polish  on  her  shoes, 
an  extra  burnish  on  her  hair  and  a  special  brightness 
in  her  eyes.  A  blue  chiffon  scarf,  swathed  round  hat 
and  hair  and  tied  under  her  chin,  set  off  her  delicate 
colour  becomingly.  As  she  stood  looking  down  the  road, 
whilst  fitting  on  a  new  pair  of  gloves,  she  hummed  joy- 
fully to  herself.  All  thoughts  of  the  uncomfortable 
proximity  of  Theo  and  his  wife  had  vanished  from  her 
mind,  the  unfriendly,  silent  departure  of  Jocelyn  was 
forgotten. 

Presently  the  large  form  of  Godwin  Leigh  came  in 
sight. 

"He  is  a  fine-looking  man,"  she  thought,  with  a  sud- 
den thrill.  "  How  well  he  walks !"  She  hastened  away 
from  the  window  and  called:  "Elizabeth,  my  priceless 
pearl!"  The  old  woman's  smiling  face  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  door.  She  adored  Dolly. 

"I'm  going  out  and  perhaps  I  shan't  be  in  to  lunch. 
Don't  wait  for  me  in  any  case.  Give  the  Goblin  his 
food  at  one  o'clock,  and  if  he  doesn't  want  any  pudding, 
don't  force  him;  let  him  make  up  with  fruit." 

"The  Lamb  shall  have  all  he  wants,  mum." 

"No,  no  Elizabeth,  not  that  —  that  would  mean  us 
being  up  all  night  and  him  having  to  stay  in  bed  a  week. 
No,  spare  the  chocolate  box,  please,  but  make  the  Brown 
Bird  happy,  of  course." 

"I  will,  mum."  Elizabeth  retired,  chuckling.  Hear- 
ing the  front  door  bang  a  few  minutes  later,  she  went 
out  again  into  the  hall  and  looked  after  the  retreating 
forms  of  Dolly  and  her  companion.  "Aha,  so  that's  it, 
is  it?"  she  said.  "He's  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  to  be 
sure,  but  he's  not  the  man  for  her.  I  do  wish  Mr. 
Hamilton  would  come  back  before  it's  too  late." 


XI 

AT  half -past  twelve,  beneath  the  shadows  of  the 
ruined  towers  of  Wylvering,  Godwin  Leigh  asked  Dolly 
to  be  his  wife. 

The  bleak  morning  had  given  way  to  a  bright  noon; 
invigorating  breezes  blew  around  them  as  they  sat  on 
the  grass  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff  enjoying  the  pale 
spring  sunshine.  Below,  the  tide  was  coming  in  with 
little  gentle  ripples,  and  Dolly,  looking  from  the  calm 
Bea  to  the  cloudless  sky  overhead,  chose  to  regard  it  as  a 
good  omen  for  her  future. 

For  a  little  space  of  time  she  was  happier  than  she 
had  ever  dreamed  she  could  be  again.  Godwin  had 
been  so  kind,  so  charmingly  tender.  His  wooing  seemed 
to  strike  just  the  note  that  accorded  with  her  mood,  and 
after  four  years  of  loneliness  to  be  beloved  again  was 
very  sweet. 

Soon  they  were  discussing  their  plans  for  the  future. 
The  man  delighted  Dolly  by  confiding  in  her  rather 
shyly  that  all  his  adult  life  he  had  longed  to  be  married. 

"But  I  couldn't  find  the  one  I  wanted,"  he  said.  "I 
go  little  in  society,  and  such  girls  as  I  met  there  seemed 
to  be  brainless  and  heartless.  And  the  women  I  meet 
in  my  work,  who  have  the  same  interests  as  myself — 
they're  good,  earnest  women,  all  brains  and  hearts,  but 
for  the  most  part  without  charm.  Directly  I  saw  you  on 
the  golf  links,  so  serene  and  beautiful,  I  thought  'Here 
she  is  at  last ! '  and  when  I  found  you  were  free  and  saw 
how  quietly  you  lived,  tending  your  child,  making  the 
best  of  your  lonely  lot,  my  heart  went  out  to  you.  I 
used  to  have  a  prejudice  against  widows,"  he  continued, 
"but  I  respected  you  from  the  first  because  you  were 
270 


DOWNWARD  271 

really  Irrmg  a  widowed  life,  although  the  world  waa 
dear  to  you.  But  now  you  11  end  your  days  of 
mourning  .  .  ." 

Dolly  turned  her  face  away ;  she  winced  at  his  words 
and  found  sudden  tears  surging  up  in  her.  How  hateful 
a  thing  it  was  to  deceive !  She  longed  to  tell  the  truth, 
but  dared  not. 

''Is  it  .  .  .  is  it  painful  to  you,  sweetheart !" 

"No— no,  don't  think  that!" 

"Some  day,  perhaps,  you'll  tell  me! " 

"Yes,  yes,  Godwin — when  I  know  you  better,  but  just 
now — well,  perhaps  it  is  rather  painful.  I've  had  an 
unhappy  life  on  the  whole,  and  ...  I  want  to  forget. 
I  want  to  begin  afresh  with  you — a  quite,  quite  new 
volume." 

The  earnestness  of  her  manner,  of  her  deep  eyes 
destined  to  give  men  dreams  thrilled  and  touched  him; 
the  inference  that  her  first  marriage  had  been  unhappy 
was  not  displeasing. 

"Well  write  it  together,  Dolly,"  he  said,  with  genu- 
ine feeling,  and  Dolly,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  told 
herself  that  at  last  she  stood  on  the  edge  of  all  her  sor- 
rows, soon  to  leave  them  behind  forever.  With  a  little 
forced  laugh  she  remarked  that  their  acquaintance  had 
only  dated  from  less  than  a  month  ago. 

"What  of  that?  I  should  have  been  very  disap- 
pointed in  you  if  you'd  given  me  a  different  answer  on 
that  account,"  said  the  man;  "if  there's  one  thing  I 
especially  despise,  it's  the  middle-class  idea  of  courting 
— the  idea  that  one  has  to  dance  attendance  on  a  woman 
for  a  certain  length  of  time  before  speaking.  Why  all 
these  foolish  conventionalities?  Directly  I  looked  into 
your  eyes,  when  Jocelyn  introduced  us  on  the  links,  I 
knew  you  for  my  wife." 

She  said  thoughtfully:  "Suppose  you  should  be 
wrong  about  me?  Suppose  I  should  turn  out  quite  a 
different  kind  of  woman?" 

"I  know  the  kind  of  woman  you  are.  I  couldn't  be 
wrong.  You're  just — mine." 


272  DOWNWARD 

"So  ~be  it!"  thought  Dolly.  His  arrogance  did  not  an- 
noy her;  on  the  contrary,  it  carried  a  kind  of  relief.  If 
he  was  so  set  on  having  her — so  be  it!  But  she  was 
secretly  dismayed  that  he  should  form  so  wrong  an 
impression  of  her,  though  even  had  he  answered  differ- 
ently she  dared  not  speak.  How  strange  it  was  the 
secret  which  had  been  so  difficult  to  keep  from  Jocelyn, 
which,  in  fact,  had  slipped  out  of  its  own  accord,  should 
be  impossible  to  confide  to  Godwin. 

In  her  longing  for  happiness,  for  ease  of  mind,  she 
characteristically  consoled  herself  with  the  thought : 
"It's  his  own  fault  if  he  can't  read  me  aright — I'm 
easy  enough  to  read !  I  never  pretended  to  be  a  discon- 
solate widow.  I've  not  acted  a  part — I  simply  couldn't; 
and  I  don't  ask  him  about  his  past,  why  should  he  know 
mine?  I'll  be  an  immaculate  wife,  and  that's  all  that 
concerns  him," 

But  presently  she  was  again  disturbed.  Leigh  had 
been  explaining  his  position  and  prospects,  which  was 
not  in  itself  disagreeable  to  her  as  it  would  have  been 
at  such  a  time  to  a  woman  of  finer  sentiment. 

"Lord  Hatherton  of  Ardwick  is  my  cousin,"  he  told 
her;  "he's  a  bachelor,  and  when  his  brother  died  five 
years  ago  I  became  his  heir.  He's  a  comparatively  poor 
man,  though  there's  a  nice  place  down  at  Ardwick.  He 
allows  me  £1,000  a  year,  but  it  almost  all  goes  on  my 
work.  Fortunately,  he's  too  great  a  recluse  to  know 
this,  as  he'd  highly  disapprove.  Of  course  I  shall  have 
less  to  spare  for  the  Cause  as  a  married  man,  but  when 
I  inherit  there  will  be  plenty,  and  until  then  you  won't 
mind  being  poor,  will  you,  as  so  much  is  needed  for  the 
Cause?  Fortunately,  you're  independent  yourself,  I 
take  it!" 

Acting  on  a  sudden  impulse,  Dolly  said,  hurriedly: 
"I  lose  my  income  if  I  marry." 

"That's  a  pity — for  my  poor  people's  sake,  but  no 
matter.  And  your  boy's  future?" 

"Oh — er — er,  I  retain  enough  for  him,  and — er — his 
education  and  future's  provided  for."  She  resolved  to 


DOWNWARD  273 

write  to  Dacre  about  this  at  once ;  a  new  settlement  must 
be  arranged  with  Theo.  For  herself,  she  longed  to  be 
made  independent  of  his  allowance  by  her  marriage,  but 
she  resolved  that  Theo's  son  should  not  cost  Godwin 
Leigh  a  single  penny. 

"I  don't  mind  being  poor  as  long  as  I'm  happy  and 
busy,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  help  you  with  your  work, 
Godwin.  I've  often  felt  a  longing  to  do  rescue  work." 

"Oh,  no!  I  couldn't  allow  you  to  do  any  of  that, 
dear;  it's  shocking  work.  With  the  defective  children 
now " 

"But  why — why?    It's  a  woman's  work,  surely." 

"Yes,  but  not  work  for  a  young,  innocent  woman  like 
you." 

"Godwin — you  hurt  me!  I'm  thirty — I'm  a  mother 
— I've  suffered!  Do  you  think  me  such  a  foolish  doll?" 

"No,  no,  my  dearest  girl — but  you  don't  realize  the 
debased,  brutalized  women  some  of  them  are,  and  you're 
so  sweet  and  pure  ..." 

This  was  unendurable. 

"I've  seen  life!"  she  answered,  striving  to  control 
herself.  ' '  These  women  are  not  likely  to  harm  me — some 
of  them  are  young  too,  mere  children — all  of  them  were 
pure  once,  and — and  we're  all  sisters  under  our  skins. 
I  could  help  them;  I  feel  for  them  so." 

He  smiled  at  her  indulgently.  "I  love  your  sweet 
charity,  but  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
You  and  those  women!  But  we  won't  talk  about  it 
any  more  now.  Let's  go  and  forage  at  the  inn  for 
lunch.  Hard-boiled  eggs  and  cheese  they're  sure  to 
have,  and  that's  enough  for  me,  if  it  pleases  you." 
Dolly  was  so  delighted  at  this  indication  of  simple  tastes 
that  her  annoyance  subsided,  but  she  thought  to  herself 
that  if  all  rescue-workers  shared  Leigh's  spirit,  it  was 
easy  to  understand  why  so  few  women  were  rescued. 

For  the  rest  of  the  walk  she  was  careful  to  keep  the 
conversation  off  embarrassing  subjects.  They  had  a 
merry  picnic  lunch  and  walked  slowly  homeward — some- 
times holding  hands,  often  looking  into  each  other's 


274  DOWNWARD 

eyes.  If  Dolly  did  not  feel  the  rapture  of  ardent  love 
for  her  newly  betrothed,  neither  did  she  feel  any  of  the 
unrest  and  clamour  of  love.  The  peace  and  content  of 
her  heart  seemed  an  infinitely  more  precious  thing  to 
her.  She  took  a  feminine  delight,  too,  in  the  thought 
of  being  married,  of  being  really  a  Mrs,  after  so  many 
years  of  pretence.  As  with  all  women  of  her  tragic 
history,  the  haven  of  matrimony  seemed  infinitely 
desirable  to  her. 

She  was  going  to  be  married  ...  a  real  wife  with  a 
real  wedding-ring!  She  could  throw  far  into  the  sea 
that  other  ring  which  she  had  bought  for  herself  in  such 
deep  humiliation.  Henceforth  she  had  done  with  humili- 
ation and  with  shame.  She  was  going  to  begin  a  new 
life — turn  over  a  clean  page.  New  clothes,  new  trunks, 
a  new  house,  a  new  life,  a  new  world  .  .  .  her  heart 
thrilled  with  joy  at  the  prospect. 

They  made  a  wide  detour  by  Hencham  and  Dillbor- 
ough  and  returned  along  the  main  road.  Near  the  latter 
village  a  smart  open  carriage  swept  past  them  contain- 
ing a  woman  propped  up  with  cushions,  a  man  and  a 
nurse  in  uniform.  The  lovers  were  too  engrossed  in 
their  conversation  to  notice  tie  occupants  of  the  car- 
riage, nor  did  they  hear  the  woman  say,  as  it  drove  on : 

"Why,  that  was  Dolly!  Didn't  you  see,  Theo?  I'm 
sure  that  it  was  she — and  looking  so  pretty  and  happy, 
too;  I  am  glad!  Do  let's  torn  back  and  speak  to  her. 
Edwards  I" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  pale,  anxious-looking  man  at  her 
side,  "it  wasn't  she;  I'm  sure  you're  mistaken.  It 
would  look  most  singular  to  go  after  them.  Drive  on, 
Edwards!" 


XII 

"MUMMA,"  said  Keddy  after  breakfast  on  Friday 
morning,  ''aren't  you  never  going  to  play  wiv  me 
again?"  He  climbed  on  to  her  knees  and  they  hugged 
each  other  for  some  minutes. 

"Have  I  been  such  a  nasty  mummy  lately,  my 
Birdeen?"  asked  Dolly,  conscience-stricken,  leaning  her 
cheek  against  his. 

"Not  'zackly  nasty,  but  more  like  a  step-muwer, "  re- 
plied the  child;  he  knew  all  about  step-mothers  from 
Grimm's  Fairy  Tales.  Dolly  laughed  and  hugged  him 
again.  "I'm  awfully  tired  of  playing  with  Gertrude," 
he  went  on. 

"But  I  thought  you  loved  to  go  out  with  her?" 

"To  go  out,  yes;  she  does  let  me  slosh  about  in  the 
rnud,  but  she  can't  play  properly.  She  doesn't  know 
nothing  about  sojers,  an'  she  pretends  to  be  bears  all 
wrong,  an'  she  said  there's  no  such  fing  as  an  enchanted 
forest  when  I  asked  her  to  6«  one  yesterday." 

"Well,  never  mind,  my  own;  I'll  be  a  lovely  mummy 
now,  and  we'll  have  no  end  of  games.  Mr.  Leigh's  com- 
ing to  tea  this  afternoon;  perhaps  he'll  play  with  you, 
too.  And  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  little  Son;  perhaps  next 
week — perhaps  on  Monday — you  and  I  are  going  up  to 
London!" 

"In  a  cab  an'  a  train  an'  anuwer  cab  like  we  did 
before?" 

"Yes,  just  like  that!" 

Keddy  beamed  silently;  this  was  too  huge  an  event 
for  words. 

"You  shall  come  out  with  me  this  morning,  and  we'll 
walk  to  Skarne  and  shop,"  Dolly  continued,  piling  joy 
275 


276  DOWNWARD 

on  joy.  "Go  and  put  your  boots  on — yourself,  mind — 
Elizabeth 's  only  to  tie  the  knots. ' ' 

"May  Bognor  come,  mumma?" 

"No,  darling,  not  to  Skarne — he's  much  too  trouble- 
some." 

"He  says  he'll  be  very  good." 

"I  dare  say,  but  I  can't  take  him,  he's  so  heavy  to 
carry  up  that  long  hill,  and  you  know  you  won't  like 
pushing  him  all  the  way." 

The  prospect  of  the  shops  at  Skarne  was  too  dazzling 
for  Keddy's  spirits  to  be  downcast,  even  at  having  to 
leave  his  familiar  friend  behind.  He  bent  down  and 
whispered  at  length  into  Bognor 's  wooden  ear,  appar- 
ently words  of  comfort.  Dolly  caught  a  scrap — "an'  a 
train  an'  anuwer  cab,  fink  of  that!"  Evidently  Bognor 
was  being  consoled  by  the  promise  of  delights  in  the 
near  future.  "So  I'm  expected  to  take  this  wretched 
animal  to  town  with  me,  am  I?"  was  her  own  thought. 

They  started  off  in  high  spirits;  Keddy  was  ever  a 
lively  child,  and  to-day  his  mother's  light-heartedness 
communicated  itself  to  him.  He  jumped  and  bounded 
about  on  the  Downs  and  carolled  for  joy.  For  a  time 
they  ran  races,  Keddy  always  mysteriously  winning, 
and  at  length  they  sank  breathless  on  one  of  the  rough 
wooden  seats.  An  old  lady  already  sitting  there  with  a 
fat  black  pug  at  her  feet  regarded  their  intrusion  with 
evident  coldness;  little  boys  were  always  objectionable 
in  her  eyes,  especially  little  boys  who  shouted  and  bel- 
lowed about  nothing. 

She  seemed,  however,  to  exercise  a  baleful  fascination 
for  Keddy,  who  stared  at  the  lined  old  face  in  solemn 
silence  for  some  minutes.  Dolly  rested  contentedly, 
gazing  at  the  sea,  all  unconscious  of  the  thunderbolt  her 
offspring  was  preparing  for  her.  Presently  it  came.  In 
a  loud,  clear  voice  Keddy  asked,  "Mummy,  when  is  that 
old  lady  going  to  God?" 

He  was  surprised  at  the  rapidity  at  which  his  mother 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  hurried  on,  holding  him  firmly  by 


DOWNWARD  277 

the  wrist.  "Mumma,  you're  hurting  me!  Mumma, 
don't  run  so  ...  are  you  cross  with  me?" 

"No,  little  Son,"  Dolly  made  reply  in  a  somewhat 
stifled  voice,  "only  you  shouldn't  have  said  that;  it 
might  have  vexed  the  old  lady." 

"But  I  fought  it  was  nice  to  go  to  God.  You  told  me 
I  should  go  myself  some  day,  when  I  'm  very  old. ' ' 

"Ye — es,  dear,  of  course.  But  still,  old  ladies  don't 
want  to  talk  about  it,  not  with  strange  little  boys, 
any  way. ' ' 

"But  she  was  so  very  old,  mumma,  and  so  crinkly;  she 
must  want  to  be  made  new  again." 

Tactfully  Dolly  pointed  out  a  steamer  on  the  horizon 
which  had  the  desired  result  of  changing  the  subject. 

"Johnny  Merton's  daddy's  going  to  take  him  on  a 
puffer-steamer  at  Easter,"  Keddy  remarked.  "He's 
going  to  Margate  an'  back,  an'  he's  going  to  take  his 
dinner  and  tea  in  a  hamper." 

Dolly  shuddered.  "Well,  some  day  you  shall  go  on  a 
steamer  too,  but  I  would  rather  have  the  dinner  and  tea 
in  shops  when  we  get  there." 

"But  I  haven't  got  any  daddy  to  take  me.  Sometimes 
I  do  wish  I  had  a  daddy,  mumma — a  good  daddy,  not 
the  one  what  was  wicked  to  you." 

"Do  you,  my  darling?  ..."  She  had  not  meant  to 
tell  the  child  yet,  but  the  wistful  little  voice  pulled  at 
her  heart  strings.  She  bent  down  and  lifted  up  his  face. 

"Look  at  me,  Keddy.  Will  you  promise  to  keep  a 
great  secret — a  very  great  secret?  Well,  mummy's 
going  to  get  a  new  daddy  for  her  Brown  Bird,  and  it's 
Mr.  Leigh  ....  He 's  coming  to  live  with  us  for  always. 
Now,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

To  her  surprise  and  disappointment,  the  joyous  shout 
she  was  expecting  was  not  forthcoming.  Keddy  stared 
at  her  for  a  minute  with  large,  wondering  eyes  and  then 
said,  "Bognor  doesn't  like  Mr.  Leigh.  He  laughed  at 
Bognor's  tail;  he  said  it  was  a  piece  of  catskin." 

"But  you  like  him,  Keddy?" 

"Yes,  I  like  him,  but  will  he  give  me  lessons?    Lauri* 


278  DOWNWARD 

Carter's  daddy  gives  him  lessons  every  morning,  an' 
Laurie  hides  in  the  currant  bushes  sometimes " 

"No,  he  won't  give  you  any  lessons,  and  you'll  never 
need  to  hide  from  him.  He'll  be  a  very  kind  daddy  and 
play  soldiers  better  than  any  one  else  you  know,  and 
perhaps  he'll  take  you  to  the  Zoo  sometimes." 

"Ho!  will  he?  The  Zoo!  Johnny  Merton's  never 
been  there.  Hurrah!  hurrah!" 

At  last  signs  of  joy :  Dolly  felt  vastly  relieved.  Keddy 
bellowed  and  jumped  about,  racing  on  wildly  and  finally 
butting  into  Mrs.  Redwood,  who  was  ascending  the  cliff 
path  from  Skarne,  somewhat  short  of  breath. 

"Hurrah!  I'm  going  to  have  a  new  daddy,"  he 
shouted.  "Mr.  Leigh's  going  to  be  my  daddy  and  take 
me  to  the  Zoo  and  never  give  me  any  lessons!" 

"What?"  shrieked  the  lady,  her  annoyance  at  having 
the  parcels  knocked  out  of  her  hands  amply  recom- 
pensed by  this  choice  tit-bit  of  news.  "Well,  really!" 
Then  as  Dolly  came  up,  she  was  welcomed  with  two  out- 
stretched hands  and  the  heartiest  possible  neigh:  "My 
dear  Mrs.  Faithfull !  My  dear  girl !  I  am  delighted  to 
hear  the  news.  What  a  surprise!  How  sudden,  but 
how  very  pleasing!" 

"It's  only  just  settled,"  said  Dolly,  scarlet  with  vex- 
ation. "I  told  the  child  as  a  secret  ...  we  had  no  idea 
yet  .  .  ." 

"But  you  don't  mind  an  old  friend  like  me  knowing, 
when  we've  been  neighbours  all  these  years.  I'm  de- 
lighted— quite  delighted!  Of  course  he's  almost  a 
stranger  to  me,  but  I  thought  him  charmin ' ;  such  a  fine- 
lookin'  man,  too,  and  I  hear  he's  heir  to  Lord  Hatherton 
of  Ardwick? 

"Trust  you  to  find  out  everything,"  thought  Dolly. 

"How  surprised  Mr.  Jocelyn  will  be — rather  a  blow, 
too,  yes?"  Mrs.  Redwood  added  archly.  "I  think  so!  I 
had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning,  askin'  me  to  send 
on  some  music  he'd  left  at  my  house.  The  place  seems 
dull  without  him,  and  now  we  shall  be  k»sin'  you,  too?" 

"Oh,  no-fcmg's  settled, "  Dtflly  assured  her  hastily, 


DOWNWARD  279 

"we  haven't  had  time  to  discuss  anything  yet.  Oh,  look 
where  that  boy's  got  to — he'll  kill  himself!  I  must  run 
after  him.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Redwood!" 

All  unconscious  of  the  awful  breach  of  confidence  he 
had  committed,  the  young  man  was  galloping  down  the 
steep  cliff  path  at  a  perilous  rate,  apparently  fired  to 
frenzy  point  by  the  prospect  of  visiting  the  Zoo.  At 
last,  after  a  breathless  run,  his  mother  caught  him  and 
most  unexpectedly  proceeded  to  administer  a  sharp 
rebuke. 

"Is  that  what  you  call  keeping  a  secret,  Clifford? 
Didn't  you  promise  me  not  to  tell  any  one  about  your 
new  daddy?" 

"I've  not  done  nothing.  What  have  I  done, 
mummy  ? ' '  asked  Keddy  in  an  injured  voice. 

"You  told  Mrs.  Redwood  the  secret." 

"Oh  .  .  .  Oh— h.  I  didn't  fink  you  meant  not  to  tell 
her.  I  fought  you  meant  me  not  to  tell  Laurie  an* 
Johnnie  an'  Gertrude  an'  Elizabeth,  an'  Uncle  Arthur, 
an'  the  fishmonger's  boy,  an'  gardener  an'  postman." 
Dolly  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  enumeration  of  the 
people  who  mattered  in  her  son's  small  world. 

"You  might  have  told  all  of  them,  if  only  you'd  not 
told  Mrs.  Redwood,"  she  said,  less  severely.  "Mrs. 
Redwood  is  a  person  one  never  tells  secrets  to." 

"Why,  mummy?  I  like  her,  she  gave  me  a  chocolate 
fish  once.  Why  mayn't  she  hear  seclets?" 

"Because — because,  oh,  never  mind!"  said  Dolly  in 
despair. 

"May  I  ask  her  why,  next  time  I  meet  her?" 

"No,  certainly  not!" 

"Why  are  you  so  cross,  mummy?" 

"I'm  vexed,  Keddy.  I'm  disappointed  in  you. 
Mother  likes  to  feel  she  can  trust  her  boy.  What  kind 
of  a  soldier  will  you  make  if  you  can't  keep  a  secret  five 
minutes  ? ' ' 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  sojer  now,  so  it  doesn't 
matter!  I'm  going  to  be  a  lawyer  like  Uncle  Dacre 


280  DOWNWARD 

an'  have  an  office  an'  a  chair  what  turns  round  an' 
round. ' ' 

"Well,  Uncle  Dacre  has  to  keep  lots  and  lots  of  secrets 
— more  secrets  than  any  one  else." 

"Then  perhaps  I'll  he  a  motor  cabman,"  said  the 
child,  meditatively.  "I  should  like  to  blow  those  horns 
in  the  streets.  Have  yon  stopped  being  cross,  mummy  ? ' ' 

"Y-yes,  I  think  so.  Yes,  love,  I  have.  After  all, 
you're  only  a  very  little  boy,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  four  in  May.  Can  we  go  to  the  Zoo  on  my 
birthday?" 

"Yes,  beloved."  Dolly  bent  down  and  kissed  him, 
and  the  serious  little  face  lit  up  at  this  sign  of  for- 
giveness. 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  he  whispered.  "I'll  never  do  it 
again. ' ' 

Made  happy  by  repeated  assurances  of  forgiveness, 
Keddy  resumed  his  galloping  and  curveting.  They  had 
now  reached  the  beginning  of  the  asphalted  esplanade 
at  Skarne  where  these  manoeuvres  were  safe  enough. 
Dolly,  as  she  followed,  was  blaming  herself  for  not  hav- 
ing exacted  a  promise  of  secrecy  from  Mrs.  Redwood — 
not  that  it  would  have  been  much  good,  she  thought, 
consoling  herself.  Engagements  were  rare  in  Skarne 
and  practically  unknown  in  Wylton,  where  young,  un- 
married men  did  not  exist.  Mrs.  Redwood  could  not 
possibly  have  denied  herself  the  triumph  of  whispering 
such  an  exceptional  piece  of  information  to  her  profes- 
sional rival,  and  once  Miss  Sapper  was  acquainted  with 
it  nothing  short  of  gagging  and  imprisoning  her  would 
have  prevented  it  spreading.  Dolly  felt  sure  the  parcel 
of  music  for  Jocelyn  would  be  accompanied  by  a  little 
note  from  Mrs.  Redwood  bearing  the  news.  This 
thought  was  rather  pleasing  to  her ;  she  felt  glad  that  he 
should  know.  She  resigned  herself  to  the  idea  of  her  en- 
gagement being  announced  at  once,  hoping  only  that 
Leigh  would  not  be  congratulated  before  she  had  had 
time  to  explain  the  circumstances.  Fortunately  he  was 


DOWNWARD  281 

acquainted  with  no  one  in  Wylton  except  herself  and 
Mrs.  Redwood,  though  every  soul  in  the  place  knew  him 
by  sight  and  something  of  his  affairs. 

They  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  Skarne,  as  Keddy 
shared  his  mother's  passion  for  shops,  and  liked  to  take 
each  window  in  turn,  enumerating  exactly  which  arti- 
cles he  would  buy  when  he  grew  up.  Both  were  tired 
when  they  reached  the  Downs  again  on  the  homeward 
journey,  and  for  the  child's  sake  a  short  halt  was  made 
at  every  wooden  seat. 

Dolly  was  sitting  on  one,  looking  seaward  as  usual,  her 
arm  round  the  little  boy  whose  head  was  pillowed 
against  her,  when  suddenly  a  familiar  voice  greeted  her, 
with  the  well-remembered  hoarse  note  that  betokened 
nervousness.  She  turned  sharply  round  and  saw  Theo 
standing  behind  the  seat. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  child,  who  was  gazing  back 
in  a  friendly  manner.  Dolly  was  greatly  embarrassed. 
Before  the  little  one  it  was  impossible  to  utter  any  re- 
buke. With  murmured  excuses  she  rose,  but  Theo  was 
holding  out  his  hand  to  Keddy,  and  the  boy  trustingly 
placed  his  small  hand  in  his  father's. 

''Who 're  you?"  he  asked.  "I  haven't  seen  you 
afore."  Theo  cast  an  imploring  glance  at  Dolly,  but 
she  signed  an  emphatic  negative.  "This  is  the  gentle- 
man who  lives  at  the  Square  House  now,"  she  said, 
coldly. 

"I'm  an  old  friend  of  your  mother's."  Theo  was  in- 
tensely nervous  as  he  addressed  his  son  for  the  first 
time.  He  knew  nothing  of  children  and  was  painfully 
anxious  to  please  this  one.  "May  I  be  your  friend, 
too?" 

"If  you're  mumma's  friend,  of  course,"  Keddy  an- 
swered, and  still  holding  hands  they  walked  along  to- 
gether. Dolly,  with  averted  face,  was  hurrying  on  as 
fast  as  she  could. 

"Grant  me  this  one  boon,"  said  Theo  in  a  low  voice. 

"It's  against  my  wish,"  she  replied,  speaking  fast, 


282  DOWNWARD 

without  turning  her  head.  "You  know  how  I  feel  about 
it.  It's  too  bad." 

Keddy  settled  the  matter.  He  lifted  his  arms  towards 
his  father  and  said  in  a  voice,  the  assumed  pathos  of 
which  he  knew  by  experience  to  be  irresistible,  "I'm  so 
tired!  will  you  please  carry  me?" 

Never  had  the  charm  worked  so  instantaneously.  The 
stranger  lifted  him  up  at  once,  holding  him  close  and 
tenderly.  He  clasped  his  hands  around  Theo's  neck, 
and,  with  a  sigh  of  deep  content,  laid  his  head  down  on 
the  man's  shoulder.  He  was  too  tired  to  talk.  Theo's 
heart  was  too  full  for  speech,  and  Dolly's  averted  face 
did  not  invite  it. 

"Heaven  is  merciful  to  me  to-day,"  the  father  mur- 
mured, as  he  trudged  along  with  his  precious  burden. 
Then  the  strange,  tragic  trio  moved  on  in  absolute 
silence. 

Dolly  wondered  what  he  was  thinking  about.  Theo 
wondered  at  her  implacable  jealousy  and  resentment.  It 
was  such  an  old  story  now,  he  thought.  Why  was  she 
not  content  to  bury  it  and  be  friends  for  the  boy's  sake? 
Her  attitude  seemed  strangely  cruel  to  him,  coming 
from  a  woman  of  warm  heart,  too !  The  feel  of  the 
sturdy  little  body  in  his  arms,  the  sweet  child  face  on 
his  shoulder,  the  exquisite  scent  of  a  child's  hair,  the 
sight  of  the  long  lashes  lying  on  the  soft  pink  cheeks 
and  the  bow-shaped  baby  mouth — all  the  strange  loveli- 
ness he  held  in  his  unaccustomed  arms  filled  him  with 
poignant  emotions,  and  a  keen,  passionate  regret  pierced 
his  heart  for  the  child  he  had  begotten  and  betrayed. 
His  son — his  flesh  and  blood — how  wonderful  it  was! 
How  terribly  a  man's  acts  bore  fruit! 

At  last  they  reached  the  narrow  door  in  the  high 
wooden  fence  which  separated  the  end  of  the  Square 
House  grounds  from  the  Downs.  Dolly  indicated  it  and 
curtly  bade  him  put  the  boy  down. 

"Mayn't  I  see  you  home?  It's  only  a  stone's  throw 
further." 

"Please  leave  us  now,"  she  replied. 


DOWNWARD  283 

"We  used  to  know  the  little  boys  who  had  your  house 
last"  said  Keddy,  rubbing  his  eyes  sleepily.  "There 
was  a  splendid  rubbish  heap  at  the  end  of  the  garden 
and  lots  of  nice  barrels  an'  fings,  an'  we  used  to  play 
forts  there.  I'd  like  to  come  again." 

"Run  home,  Keddy,  and  see  if  there  are  any  letters. 
There  might  be  a  picture  post  card  for  you,  and  Bognor 
will  be  wanting  you  badly." 

"Good-bye  .  .  .  Keddy."  Theo  held  out  his  hand. 
Then  he  bent  and  kissed  the  boy  timidly.  Keddy  waved 
his  hand  and  ran  off,  well  pleased  with  himself  and  his 
morning. 

"Dolly,  won't  you  let  me  see  him  sometimes?"  Theo 
burst  out,  with  something  of  his  old,  impetuous  manner. 
"Surely  you  wouldn't  grudge  me  an  occasional  half- 
hour?" 

"I  grudge  you  everything!" 

"Just  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  your  table  .  .  .  when 
you  have  so  much " 

"I  can't  afford  to  lose  a  single  crumb!"  Her  voice 
and  eyes  were  fierce  and  terrible.  "So  much!  You 
forget  I've  paid  for  what  I've  got  with  'agony  and 
bloody  sweat.'  You've  only  paid  with  money!" 

Theo  winced  as  if  he  had  been  stung.  "God! — you 
women  are  cruel!  To  allude  to  the  money!" 

"Why  not?  You've  had  the  satisfaction  of  giving  it 
— of  feeling  noble  and  generous.  I've  had  the  humilia- 
tion of  receiving  it.  But  I  don't  wish  to  hurt  you,  only 
you  bring  it  on  yourself.  Listen:  you  cut  yourself  off 
from  us  when  your  support  was  a  matter  literally  of  life 
and  death  to  us.  You  deliberately  chose  a  life  apart 
from  us.  Very  well,  now  keep  to  it!  Keep  to  your 
chosen  path  and  leave  us  alone.  .  .  .  Other  reasons 
apart,  don't  you  understand  that  you're  likely  to  com- 
promise me  seriously?  You're  a  stranger  here;  to  you 
it's  an  idyllic  little  village.  I  live  there,  and  I  know  it's 
a  hotbed  of  gossip  and  scandal,  like  most  little  villages. 
If  yon  haunt  my  house,  if  ydu're  seen  in  my  company — 
what  will  be  thought  ?  How  can  I  accotmt  for  knowing 


284  DOWNWARD 

you?  Nothing's  so  difficult  as  to  make  a  previous  old 
acquaintance  appear  a  casual  new  one.  And  there's 
something  else.  ...  I'm  going  to  be  married.  I've  a 
chance  to  retrieve  the  mistake  which  has  almost  ruined 
my  life.  I've  a  chance  to  live  as  other  people.  What 
will  that  chance  be  worth  if  you  get  me  talked  about  and 
my  secret  comes  outt" 

"He  doesn't  know,  then?" 

"No,  he— doesn't— know." 


XIII 

KEDDY  was  very  bored  that  afternoon.  Missing  his 
morning  nap  never  agreed  with  him.  He  was  tired  of 
the  sand  heap  in  the  back  garden,  where  mother  had  told 
him  to  play.  It  was  no  use  going  into  the  kitchen  for 
amusement.  Elizabeth  was  scrubbing  the  floor,  and  she 
had  a  strangely  violent  objection  to  little  boys  with 
dirty  garden  boots  walking  over  her  newly  scrubbed 
floors.  Plainly  the  kitchen  was  now  a  perilous  place, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  subtle  delights  of  its  cupboards  and 
tins,  it  had  obviously  better  be  avoided  for  the  present. 
The  drawing-room  offered  absolutely  no  possibilities,  as 
mother  and  Mr.  Leigh  were  there,  and  they  seemed  to 
have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other.  Keddy  had  been 
in  once,  and  made  plans  for  a  speedy  visit  to  the  Zoo; 
the  future  looked  bright  enough,  it  was  only  the  present 
that  hung  heavily. 

To-day  he  was  in  a  mood  for  adventure,  and  he  sud- 
denly bethought  himself  of  those  fascinating  regions  at 
the  end  of  the  gardens  belonging  to  the  Square  House. 
With  Keddy  to  think  was  to  act;  a  few  minutes  later  a 
little  figure  in  a  blue  reefer  jacket  and  red  fisher  cap  was 
running  round  the  corner  of  Sandringham  Avenue  and 
over  the  Downs  towards  that  door  in  the  wooden  wall. 

The  latch  was  easy  to  undo  ...  no  one  was  looking. 
The  little  figure  crept  into  the  garden  .  .  .  not  a  soul 
about !  Look !  There  was  the  sublime  rubbish  heap, 
there  the  glorious  barrels,  there  the  mysterious  potting- 
shed — sights  to  warm  a  small  boy 's  heart ! 


An  hour  later,  after  returning  from  her  drive,  Helen 
285 


286  DOWNWARD 

"Walter  was  resting  in  a  long  chair  in  the  veranda,  with 
Theo  sitting  by  her  side. 

"I  feel  much  better  already,"  she  said.  "What  a 
glorious  day,  isn't  it,  dear? — it's  really  spring  at  last. 
It  was  a  good  thing  we  came  here;  I  feel  I'm  going  to 
get  well  now." 

Her  greyish  hair  and  the  lines  of  pain  on  her  face 
had  aged  her  greatly,  but  the  tender  mother-eyes  were 
still  serene  and  full  of  love,  and  her  golden  voice  was 
musical  as  ever. 

Presently  she  suggested  another  walk  round  the  gar- 
dens to  look  again  at  the  spring  flowers,  and  to  show 
how  strong  she  was.  Together  they  went  very  slowly 
along  the  paths,  Helen  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm, 
until,  when  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  Theo  de- 
cided it  was  getting  a  little  cold  for  her  and  hurried 
back  to  the  house  for  another  wrap. 

Helen  walked  on  alone  with  rather  unsteady  steps, 
anxious  to  see  what  she  could  do.  Now  she  had  reached 
the  rough  part  of  the  grounds  where  the  heaps  of  leaf- 
mould,  tanks,  frames,  sheds,  etc.,  were  grouped  together, 
hidden  from  view  by  a  tall  hedge  of  old  privet.  She 
had  never  been  beyond  this  hedge  before.  In  ordinary 
circumstances  it  was  unlikely  that  she  would  ever  have 
gone  there,  but  Destiny  had  a  purpose  to  fulfil.  Destiny 
drew  Helen  round  the  hedge,  past  the  mound  of  leaf- 
mould,  into  the  potting-shed,  and  there  on  a  heap  of 
straw  in  the  doorway  she  beheld  a  beautiful  vision  of  a 
child  asleep. 


"Theo,  I'm  here  — by  the  shed.  Come  quickly!" 
Her  voice  was  trembling  with  a  joyful  excitement. 
"S-sh!  Don't  make  a  noise!  Oh,  Theo!  the  most 
wonderful  thing  has  happened.  Look  there! — a  little 
child  for  us ! " 

' '  Good  Heavens ! ' ' 

"An  answer  to  our  prayers,  don't  you  see — he's  ex- 
actly like  you.  He's  been  sent  to  us!  Isn't  it  beautiful 


DOWNWARD  287 

and  wonderful?  Why,  he's  the  image  of  that  miniature 
of  you  as  a  child,  the  one  I  have  always  on  my  dressing- 
table.  It's  the  same  face,  the  eyes  cast  down,  as  in  the 
miniature,  the  exact  colouring,  and  every  feature,  even 
your  dimple  in  his  chin.  Oh,  look  at  the  darling, 
Theo!" 

"Helen,  dear!  .  .  .  Helen,  what  are  you  saying? 
Yes,  he's  a  sweet  little  chap.  I  do  see  a  likeness,  but  it's 
only  a  chance  one.  He's  some  one  else's  boy,  of 
course  .  .  .  crept  in  here  to  play  and  fallen  asleep, 
tired.  See  how  dirty  his  boots  are  with  the  mould.  He 
must  have  been  here  some  time.  No  doubt  his  mother's 
frantic  about  him " 

"Oh,  Theo,  don't  you  think  he's  meant  for  us?  Oh, 
he  must  bel  What  else  can  the  strange  resemblance 
mean?  I've  prayed  so  for  a  little  son  like  you " 

"You're  hysterical,  darling— do  calm  yourself!" 

"I'm  quite  calm.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  could  adopt  him; 
I'm  sure  we're  meant  to  have  him,  somehow.  I  feel  it. 
Such  an  exact  likeness  couldn't  be  a  chance.  We  must 
find  out  where  he  lives,  and  I'll  go  and  see  his  mother." 

"I — I  believe  I've  seen  him  playing  in — in  the  garden 
of  the  big  bungalow  over  there — 'Good  Hope'  it's  called. 
I'll  take  him  round  there  and  inquire." 

The  gardener,  hastily  summoned,  established  the  iden- 
tity of  the  strange  little  boy.  Theo  again  frantically 
begged  Helen  to  return  to  the  house  and  leave  him  to 
restore  the  child  to  its  mother.  But  Helen  insisted  she 
would  go  herself  and  laughed  away  his  fears  for  her — 
the  extra  fatigue,  the  lateness  of  the  afternoon,  etc. 
She  must  see  the  wonder-boy's  mother  herself,  she  said, 
and  find  out  if  there  were  any  chance  of  adopting  him. 
In  the  midst  of  the  discussion  Keddy  yawned,  rubbed 
his  eyes  and  woke  up.  The  unhappy  man  was  compelled 
to  beat  a  retreat  to  the  house — he  dared  not  risk  a 
recognition  from  his  son. 

He  locked  himself  in  his  study  and  the  cold  sweat 
poured  off  his  brow,  as  he  watched  the  little  procession 
start  off  through  the  front  gates  along  the  main  road. 


288  DOWNWARD 

Helen  was  in  the  bath  chair ;  Keddy  squeezed  in  at  her 
side,  smiling  broadly.  His  clothes  and  hands  were  plas- 
tered with  every  kind  of  garden  dirt,  but  the  sweet- 
looking  lady  did  not  seem  to  mind  a  bit ;  he  had  had  the 
time  of  his  life  on  that  rubbish  heap,  and  being  driven 
home  like  this  was  a  grand  end  to  a  glorious  afternoon. 
The  nurse  in  uniform,  smiling  too,  walked  at  the  side, 
and,  in  the  absence  of  the  usual  bath-chair  attendant, 
the  gardener  was  pulling  the  chair. 

Keddy 's  absence  had  only  been  discovered  at  home 
when  he  was  not  forthcoming  at  tea-time.  Dolly  and 
Elizabeth  had  searched  the  house  and  garden  with 
growing  apprehension,  and  then  Leigh  had  hurried  on 
to  the  Downs  to  look  up  and  down  the  cliff  path. 

Dolly  had  just  issued  from  the  cellar,  slightly  dishev- 
elled, her  eye*  anxious  and  wretched,  when  the  bath- 
chair  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  she  heard  her  boy's  ex- 
cited little  voice  announcing,  ' '  This  is  my  house ! ' '  She 
rushed  down  the  path  and  seized  him  in  her  arms  with 
inarticulate  exclamations  of  thankfulness  and  joy. 

"My  darling!  where  have  you  been?  Oh,  Keddy,  how 
could  you?  Oh,  mother's  been  so  dreadfully  f light- 
ened 1"  Then,  suddenly  remembering  the  kind  person 
who  had  brought  her  child  back  to  her,  she  raised  her 
head  .  .  .  and  found  herself  facing  Helen! 

The  sudden  horror  that  rushed  into  her  face,  blanch- 
ing it  to  the  trembling  lips,  the  fear  in  her  eyes,  the 
broken  syllables  she  tried  to  utter  that  would  form  no 
words  were  enough  in  the  circumstances  to  reveal  the 
truth  to  the  woman  she  had  wronged,  even  although  the 
truth  was  to  Helen  so  unthinkable  a  thing. 

The  wife's  mind  worked  rapidly:  the  extraordinary 
likeness,  except  the  eyes,  and  those  the  eyes  of  Dolly,  as 
she  now  realized:  Theo's  inexplicable  dread  of  her 
going  to  the  child's  home:  Dolly's  terror  at  the  sight  of 
her.  This  was  why. 

She  recalled  Theo's  refusal  to  turn  back  that  day  they 
had  met  Dolly  on  the  high  road,  and  her  memory  went 
further  back  along  the  years  .  .  .  this  was  why  Dolly 


DOWNWARD  289 

had  refused  to  meet  her,  had  rejected  her  offers  of  help. 
This  was  why  Dolly  had  not  married  the  father  of  her 
child.  Perhaps  this  was  why  they  had  no  children. 
The  hand  of  God,  the  righteous  anger  of  God,  was  visible 
now  in  her  own  trouble :  where  the  man  had  sown,  the 
wife  was  reaping.  This  was  why ! 

It  was  all  plain  now,  and  yet  it  was  impossible,  inex- 
plicable. Dolly  and  Theo!  Oh,  surely  not  Dolly  and 
Theo ! — her  friend  and  her  husband  .  .  . 

The  nurse  had  followed  Keddy  into  the  house,  the 
gardener  had  respectfully  moved  out  of  earshot. 

A  long,  long  time  seemed  to  have  passed  while  the  two 
women  faced  each  other  in  silence;  Dolly  was  holding 
on  to  the  gate  for  support.  At  last  Helen  said,  pain- 
fully: "Is  it  really  you,  Dolly?  Why  are  you  afraid 
of  me?"  And,  with  a  feeble,  backward  gesture  of  her 
hand,  Dolly  indicated  the  child  visible  at  the  house  door. 

"Is  that  why?  Is  it  ...  that?"  A  nod  was  her 
answer.  "But  you  were  my  friend f" 

Dolly  bowed  her  head  in  bitterest  shame.  She  could 
find  no  words  for  defence.  Let  Theo  defend  himself  if 
he  could.  Let  him  explain  and  excuse  if  he  dared. 
Only  let  that  suffering,  stricken,  white  face  go  away — 
right  away — out  of  sight — out  of  mind,  .and  give  Dolly 
a  chance  to  forget — to  bury  this  agony  in  the  depths  of 
her  heart,  once  and  forever.  Oh !  when  was  she  to  see 
the  end  of  this  business  ?  When  was  she  to  be  allowed 
to  put  it  behind  forever — this  everlasting  harvest  of  a 
minute's  madness? 

Without  further  word,  Helen  withdrew  her  head  into 
the  shade  of  the  bath-chair  hood,  and  Dolly  saw  her  face 
no  more.  As  the  chair  slowly  creaked  away  down  the 
road,  Leigh  hurried  up,  breathless,  to  receive  rapturous 
salutes  from  Keddy.  He  was  surprised  at  the  passion 
of  hysterical  sobs  with  which  Dolly  flung  herself  into  his 
arms  when  they  were  again  inside  the  house.  He  con- 
soled and  soothed  her  as  nicely  as  possible,  made  her  tea, 
held  her  trembling  hand  steady  while  she  drank  it — in 
short,  did  all  that  a  man  could  for  an  agitated  woman. 


290  DOWNWARD 

But  it  was  not  him  she  wanted,  and  all  he  did  seemed 
nothing.  Her  heart  ached  for  Dacre,  the  perfect  friend 
and  comforter,  the  one  who  knew  all  her  tragedy,  who 
would  understand  exactly  the  pain  of  this  reopening  of 
old  wounds — the  only  one  who  could  have  restored  her 
self-respect.  With  all  her  heart  she  longed  for  him. 
The  future  that  had  seemed  so  fair  had  suddenly  become 
clouded  and  dim. 


XIV 

LEIGH  dined  and  spent  the  following  evening,  Satur- 
day, with  Dolly.  He  left  early,  as  they  had  decided  to 
have  a  farewell  walk  on  Sunday  morning  and  then  to 
lunch  together  before  his  departure  by  an  afternoon 
train.  Dolly  and  her  boy  were  coming  up  to  town  on 
Tuesday,  and  the  engaged  couple  had  made  many  plans 
for  a  happy  time  to  be  spent  as  much  as  possible 
together. 

Thus  their  plans,  but  Fate,  using  the  insignificant 
persons  of  Mrs.  Redwood  and  Arthur  Jocelyn  as  instru- 
ments, had  arranged  differently. 

When,  at  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  Leigh  reached  the 
club-house  where  he  was  living,  he  was  surprised  to  find 
Jocelyn  waiting  for  him  in  the  deserted  smoking-room. 

"Hullo,  old  chap,  you  here  again!  What's  wrong?" 
he  asked. 

"You  regard  me,  then,  as  a  messenger  of  evil  omen? 
I'm  sorry  to  say  that's  about  the  truth." 

"What  d'you  mean?    Is  it  a  joke?" 

"I  never  felt  less  like  joking  in  my  life.  Can  we  talk 
privately  here?" 

"Yes,  there  are  only  two  other  men  staying,  and  they 
seem  to  have  turned  in.  Fire  away.  Will  you  have 
anything?  Scotch  cold?" 

"No,  thanks,  I'll  have  brandy — and  neat,  please.  Tell 
you  the  truth,  old  man,  it's  a  deuced  nasty  business  I've 
come  about." 

Leigh  looked  at  H™  anxiously.  "Well,  go  on — what 
is  it?" 

"I  got  a  note  from  Mrs.  Redwood  this  morning — the 
lady  who  neighs.  Is  it  true  that  you're  engaged  to  Mrs. 
Faithfull?" 

291 


292  DOWNWARD 

"Yes!    Well?" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Godwin,  old  chap.  I'm  afraid 
it  11  be  a  blow,  but — do  you  know  her  history?" 

"History!    Confound  it,  man,  she's  got  none." 

"For  your  sake  I  wish  to  God  that  were  true,  but  she 
has— and  a  pretty  black  history  1" 

"That's  a  damned  lie!" 

"Look  here,  be  careful!  .  .  .  Don't  put  your  hands 
on  me!  Do  you  suppose  I'd  have  rushed  down  from 
town  immediately  I  heard  the  news  if  I  hadn't  wished 
you  well — if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  stop  you  making  a  fool 
of  yourself,  and  taking  a  step  you'll  regret  all  your  life? 
Pull  yourself  together,  man — I  know  it's  a  shock.'-' 

"Shock!" 

"It's  devilish  nasty  for  me,  and  you  may  be  sure  I'd 
not  say  anything  against  any  woman,  bnly  a  man  must 
stand  by  his  pals.  Even  then,  if  you  hadn  't  been  pretty 
decent  to  me  at  Cambridge,  I'd  not  have  opened  my 
mouth,  or  if  you'd  been  a  different  sort  of  man,  but  I 
know  how  strait-laced  you  are,  and  that  as  heir- 
presumptive  to  a  peerage  you've  got  to  consider  your 
family,  and  all  that.  I  knew  how  awfully  rough  you'd 
cut  up  if  you'd  found  it  out  after  marriage." 

"How  did  you  come  by  her  history?" 

"Man,  she  told  me  herself!  Otherwise  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it,  she  seemed  altogether  so  straight." 

' ' Told  you  herself !  I '11  ask  her  to  tell  me ;  I'd  rather 
hear  it  from  her." 

' '  As  you  please ;  I  'd  much  rather  you  did,  too. ' ' 

"It  can't  be  very  bad  if  she'd  tell  you " 

"That's  a  matter  of  opinion.  I  know  I'd  marry  no 
man's  leavings,  and  I'm  only  a  poor  devil  of  a  G.P." 

"Leavings — good  God!  Here,  tell  me,  tell  me!  I 
can't  wait  till  to-morrow.  Get  it  out,  quick  —  quick, 
man!" 

""Well,  in  the  first  instance,  she's  an  illegitimate  child, 
and  she's  followed  her  mother's  example — not  unnatu- 
rally— you  could  hardly  wonder,  and  that  boy's  illegiti- 


DOWNWARD  293 

mate,  too.  She's  not  a  widow,  and  she's  never  been 
married," 

"Impossible  .  .  .  impossible " 

"I  was  surprised,  too,  I  can  tell  yon,  as  she  was  al- 
ways so  very  particular.  Why,  she  made  quite  a  fuss 
when  I  tried  to  kiss  her,  and  wouldn't  even  let  me  use 
her  Christian  name.  But  the  worst  is  to  come:  the 
staggering  part  of  it  is  that  she's  been  living  on  an 
allowance  from  the  man  ever  since." 

' '  A  kept  woman  .  .  .  merciful  heavens,  what  infamy ! ' ' 

"Pretty  thick,  isn't  it?  And  one  can't  be  sure  he's 
the  only  one.  That  lawyer  friend  of  hers  built  and  fur- 
nished the  house  for  her,  bought  the  ground  and  all. 
As  you  know,  men  don't  put  down  money  like  that  for 
nothing.  It  may  be  all  right,  of  course ;  some  fellows  are 
so  queer  about  women,  but  to  a  man  of  the  world, 
coupled  with  all  the  rest — it's  certainly  suspicious." 

"Terrible  .  .  .  terrible.  Jocelyn,  d'you  swear  it — as 
man  to  man?" 

"I  swear  it's  the  truth,  so  help  me  God.  By  Jove,  old 
man,  I'm  sorry  for  you!" 

"I'm  stunned!  I  thought  her  so  pure,  so  sweetly 
womanly!" 

"She's  a  charming  woman  in  every  way,  and  I  was 
dead  gone  on  her  myself,  but,  honestly,  she's  not  suit- 
able for  a  ivife,  not  yours  or  any  man's.  I'm  afraid 
she's  rotten  bad  throughout  —  think  yourself  lucky 
you've  found  it  out  in  time.  I'll  tell  you  something 
more.  D'you  know  why  I  went  off  in  such  a  hurry?  It 
was  because  I  was  so  disgusted  with  her.  I  saw  her  one 
night,  at  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  entertaining  that  melan- 
choly fellow  from  Square  House.  I  know  he  was  a 
stranger  to  her;  she  must  have  picked  him  up  on  the 
cliff,  just  like  a  common  cocotte.  And  she  was  giving 
him  a  drink!  7  always  had  to  bring  my  own  whisky 
when  I  looked  in  of  an  evening — said  she  couldn't  stand 
ha-ving  the  stuff  in  the  house — all  a  blind,  of  course,  to 
look  more  respectable.  A  damned  good  actress,  no 
doubt!  I  tell  you,  it  gave  me  a  shock,  I  just  looked 


294  DOWNWARD 

through  the  window  for  a  rag,  never  dreaming  she 
wasn't  alone;  but  for  that,  and  the  allowance,  I'd  have 
overlooked  the  rest.  Every  woman  can  make  a  slip,  and 
it's  cruel  rough  luck  on  them  the  way  things  turn  out. 
But  letting  herself  be  kept  afterwards — that's  the  nasty 
part.  And  picking  up  strangers  in  the  street!  Too 
thick,  altogether  too  thick ! ' ' 

"I  can't  believe  it.  I  won't  believe  it  till  she  tells  rne 
so  herself.  I'll  go  to  her  to-inorrow  morning  and.  ask 
her  gtraight" 


XV 

THAT  Sunday  morning,  after  a  feverish  night  of 
walking,  Leigh  watched  the  sun  rise  on  the  Downs. 
Later  he  saw  Dolly's  blinds  drawn  up  and  her  home 
awakening  for  the  day.  To  pass  the  time  he  went 
wearily  along  the  coast  to  Wylvering  Towers,  where 
they  had  been  so  happy,  only  five  days  ago.  Then, 
hurrying  back,  he  reached  the  bungalow  just  as  Dolly 
had  come  to  the  gate  to  wait  for  him,  ready  for  her 
walk. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  at  the 
first  glance  at  his  face.  "Godwin,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

"Come  indoors!"  he  answered,  huskily.  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something." 

In  a  flash — Dolly  knew.  His  grey  face,  his  bloodshot 
eyes  could  only  mean  one  thing  to  her.  Since  they  had 
parted  last  night  some  one  had  told  him ! 

A  chill  crept  around  her  heart — the  light  seemed  to 
go  out — all  those  bright  dreams  for  the  new  life  van- 
ished— the  gay  castles  in  the  air  came  tumbling  down. 

She  would  not  be  married  now !  She  was  not  to  turn 
that  fair  new  page  and  start  afresh.  She  was  not  to 
have  a  new,  real  name  and  a  new,  real  wedding  ring.  It 
was  over  .  .  . 

Before  Leigh  had  spoken  a  word  she  knew  exactly 
what  was  coming.  She  sat  very  still  and  quiet,  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  while  he  blundered  out  his  story  in 
clumsy,  halting  words.  To  his  every  question,  she 
answered,  "Yes,  quite  true,"  in  a  small,  cold,  lifeless 
voice. 

"Have  you  nothing  else  to  say?"  he  asked  at  last, 
stung  by  her  attitude.    "Have  you  no  defence  to  make 
for  the  injury  you  have  done  me?" 
295 


296  DOWNWARD 

"I've  done  you  no  injury!  I  was  prepared  to  make 
you  as  perfect  a  wife  as  woman  could  be  to  man,  within 
my  powers." 

"But — but  you've  deceived  me — you've  outraged 
me!" 

"How  have  I  deceived  you!"  she  cried,  suddenly 
warming.  "I  haven't  told  you  a  single  lie,  nor  acted 
any  lie  beyond  taking  the  title  'Mrs.,'  which  I  was  com- 
pelled to  do  for  my  son's  sake.  How  have  I  deceived 
you?  I'm  exactly  what  I  appear  to  be  —  a  woman, 
strong,  healthy;  my  hair's  all  my  own  and  it  reaches 
nearly  to  my  feet;  my  eyes  are  bright  with  health  and 
not  with  belladonna;  my  teeth  and  colour  are  all  my 
own — there's  nothing  sham  about  me  from  crown  to 
heel.  Presumably  that  was  the  kind  of  wife  you  wanted 
since  you  sought  me  out,  not  I  you!  Well,  where 's  the 
deception?" 

"I  thought  you  pure!"  said  Godwin,  with  bowed 
head. 

"Pure — what  d'you  mean  by  'pure'f  How  can  you 
assess  the  exact  purity  of  a  woman 's  mind  ?  "We  've  had 
all  sorts  of  talks,  we've  discussed  intimate  questions — 
whatever  quality  of  purity  you  detected  in  me  then  is 
genuine.  I  haven't  shammed  for  you!  But,  of  course, 
you  don't  mean  purity  of  mind — you  men  have  a  false 
and  vulgar  standard! — you  refer  to  technical  purity, 
the  only  kind  you  can  understand.  "Well,  how  were  you 
deceived  ?  You  imagined  me  a  widow — that  is,  a  woman 
who  has  given  herself  in  wedlock  innumerable  times. 
Instead  of  which  you  find  me  a  woman  who  has  once 
given  herself  out  of  wedlock,  and  you  consider  me  irre- 
vocably soiled — damaged — unfit  for  an  honest  man's 
wife.  How  pitifully  ridiculous ! ' ' 

"I  don't  admit  it.  Your  arguments  are  dangerous 
and  unsound  in  the  extreme.  A  man  has  a  right  to 
demand  purity  in  the  woman  he  is  going  to  marry." 

"Purity  again !"  cried  Dolly,  despairingly.  "If  you'd 
only  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  that !  If  I  'd  announced 
myself  as  a  spinster  and  you'd  discovered  the  child  after- 


DOWNWARD  297 

wards — then  I  could  have  understood  your  anger,  but 
you  couldn't  have  expected  virginity  in  a  widow!" 

"Heavens!  Can't  you  see  that  the  fact  of  marriage 
makes  all  the  difference?" 

"I  know  it's  supposed  to,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
can't  see  why  it  should.  And  have  you  the  right  to 
demand  such  innocence  in  me  ?  Has  your  own  life  been 
so  spotless?" 

"It's  absurd  to  bring  that  question  up,"  he  answered, 
coldly.  "I  am  a  man;  it's  only  natural  there  should  be 
a  different  standard  for  women,  since  the  results  of  their 
actions  are  so  different." 

"Of  course!  and  it's  only  natural  a  man  should  take 
advantage  of  the  fact  that  the  woman  has  to  bear  the 
result  for  both,"  retorted  Dolly,  with  bitter  aptness. 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  fling  words  at  each  other  any 
more — what's  the  use?  You  think  in  a  different  lan- 
guage to  me.  You  don't  seem  to  have  an  idea  as  to  how 
severe  a  man's  code  is  on  this  matter." 

"No,  I  don't,  and  thank  heaven  for  it!"  she  cried, 
with  angry  irony.  "You  think  me  a  fallen  woman, 
unfit  to  marry;  but  there's  still  a  depth  to  which  I  can't 
sink,  since  I  can't  understand  a  man's  code !" 

The  tired  man  rose  to  his  feet.  "What's  the  use  of 
arguing?"  he  said,  wearily.  "It's  all  over;  let  me  go." 

"No,  no,  Godwin!"  Dolly  caught  him  by  the  arm. 
"Don't  leave  me — I  implore  you  to  stay!  Let's  argue 
all  day  and  all  the  night,  if  need  be.  Let  me  hear  every- 
thing you  can  say  against  me  and  let  me  defend  myself. ' ' 

"It  can  do  no  good." 

"Not  to  you,  perhaps;  but  to  me  it  can.  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  convince  you,  but  I  must  convince  myself  that 
I'm  not  really  the  debased  creature  you  think  me,  or  I 
shall  lose  my  self-respect.  Don't  you  understand  what 
the  result  of  such  a  blow  as  you  have  dealt  me  to-day 
might  be?  If  I  lose  belief  in  myself,  I'm  lost!  That's 
the  fatal  harm  you  virtuous  people  do — your  deadly 
censoriousness  robs  the  erring  of  their  self-respect,  and 
thus  they  lose  the  only  weapon  with  which  to  fight  their 


298  DOWNWARD 

way  back,  the  sole  defence  between  them  and  the 
depths!" 

Leigh  was  impressed  against  his  will  by  the  earnest- 
ness of  her  pleading  and  the  appeal  in  the  deep  sadness 
of  her  eyes,  as  she  faced  him,  one  hand  stretched  out  to 
keep  him  back. 

"Upon  my  soul,  you  seem  a  good  woman,"  he  mut- 
tered, looking  fixedly  at  her. 

"I'm  a  decent  woman,  Godwin;  I'm  pure  in  the  real 
sense  of  the  word,  and  the  fact  that  you  can't  see  it 
shows  to  what  an  extent  narrow  and  conventional  views 
can  warp  a  man's  real  nobility.  I'd  have  made  you  a 
good  wife!"  Her  voice  shook  as  the  wild  regret  for  all 
those  fair  dreams  of  the  new  life  surged  up  in  her. 
"Ah,  don't  be  afraid,"  she  went  on,  sadly,  "I'm  not 
going  to  entreat  you;  I  know  it's  all  over;  I  couldn't 
marry  you  now,  no  matter  if  you  begged  me " 

The  man  sat  down  again.  "You  said  just  now  ..." 
he  hesitated,  embarrassed,  his  voice  growing  indistinct — 
"you  said  'only  once.'  My  poor  child,  I'm  very  sorry 
for  you;  that  was  very  hard.  I  know  what  scoundrels 
some  men  are;  I  can  understand  a  woman  losing  her 
head  ...  it  isn't  so  much  that;  it  might  even  have  been 
possible  to  overlook  that,  but  the  frightful  part  of  it  to 
me  is  that  you've  accepted  an  allowance  from  this  man 
ever  since.  You've  lived  on  him — at  your  ease — coining 
your  shame,  so  to  speak. ' ' 

"But  what  else  could  I  do,  with  a  child?" 

"You  could  have  worked  for  your  child,"  he  an- 
swered, sternly,  "refused  the  payment  of  dishonour — 
worked,  and  thus  atoned!" 

"Oh  the  cruelty  and  imbecility  of  you  men!"  Dolly 
cried,  furiously.  "Wasn't  the  happiness  and  welfare 
of  my  child  the  best  possible  atonement  and  justifica- 
tion? What  sort  of  life,  what  sort  of  upbringing  and 
atmosphere  could  I  have  provided  for  the  boy,  strug- 
gling in  dire  poverty  to  make  a  living  for  us  both? 
Won't  the  home  and  surroundings  and  personal  devo- 
tion I've  been  able  to  give  him  through  accepting  his 


DOWNWARD  299 

father's  money — won't  they  make  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  to  his  character  and  his  future  ?  Why  should 
I  sacrifice  both  him  and  myself  to  this  senseless  idea  of 
petty  pride,  which  you  call  atonement  ?  Having  already 
done  him  one  wrong,  am  I,  then,  to  heap  other  wrongs 
on  him  by  denying  him  all  the  advantages  that  money 
can  buy?" 

"You've  got  your  lesson  pat,"  said  Godwin,  grimly. 
He  distrusted  glibness  in  women  and  hardened  his  heart 
accordingly. 

' '  I  've  had  time  enough  to  think  of  it  all  these  years, ' ' 
she  answered,  bitterly.  "And  when  you  talk  of  work, 
why  should  I  be  the  only  one  to  work  ?  Why  should  not 
a  man  work  for  his  child,  no  matter  in  what  circum- 
stance it  was  born?  Considering  the  enormous  disad- 
vantages of  illegitimacy,  surely  the  very  least  a  man  can 
do  for  an  illegitimate  child  is  to  pay  for  its  keep ! ' ' 

"The  law  of  England "  began  Godwin,  stiffly. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  the  law,  or  I  shall  lose  all 
patience!  The  cruel,  devilish  law  of  England  allows  a 
child  only  one  parent — the  father;  unless  it's  a  child  of 
what  they  call  shame,  and  then  the  mother's  good 
enough!  A  father's  name  is  considered  an  honour, 
something  to  keep  clean  and  do  credit  to,  but  to  bear  a 
mother's  name  is  a  mark  of  disgrace.  What  could  be 
more  monstrously  unjust  and  cruel?  These  horrible 
laws  that  you  men  have  made  for  us " 

"Oh,  what's  the  good  of  all  this,  Dolly?  I'm  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  laws.  What  good  can  we  do  by  talking 
and  talking?" 

' '  No,  no.  .  .  .  You  shan  't  go ! "  Once  more  she  barred 
his  exit  with  outstretched  arms,  and  her  eyes  were  so 
wild  that  he  felt  afraid  of  her. 

"You've  talked  of  atonement!  How  long  ought  it  to 
last,  d'you  think?  I've  been  atoning  every  minute  since 
I  committed  the  fault!  Is  it  to  go  on  forever? — a  life- 
time of  expiation  for  a  minute's  sin?  Is  that  just,  you 


300  DOWNWARD 

He  thought  he  had  not  deserved  such  scorn  as  quiv- 
ered in  her  words  and  flashed  from  her  steely  eyes. 

"What  do  you  know  of  my  punishment?"  she  con- 
tinued, passionately.  "Ah,  if  I  could  show  it  to  you,  bit 
by  bit,  as  it  ate  into  my  heart!"  Her  voice  was  quiet 
now  and  full  of  intolerable  pain ;  the  words  fell  from 
her  lips  slowly,  very  slowly,  as  she  stared  in  front  of 
her.  .  .  .  "Those  dreadful  first  weeks  of  terror  and 
humiliation:  the  ghastly  day  I  knew  I  was  to  be  left  in 
the  lurch  to  fight  for  myself:  the  deadly  temptation  to 
destroy  the  thing  that  meant  my  ruin  .  .  .  and  the  long 
months  of  bodily  and  mental  misery :  the  loneliness  .  .  . 
ah,  Godv:in!  the  awful  loneliness  .  .  .  and  the  climax 
when  I  had  to  face  that  fearful  agony  alone.  ..."  Her 
voice  faltered  and  broke  into  a  sob. 

"If  you  men  knew  what  women  go  through!"  she 
went  on,  and  as  he  listened  Godwin  Leigh  felt  strange 
tears  start  into  his  eyes — "And  I  was  alone — no  grate- 
ful husband,  no  kindly  lover  to  praise  and  comfort  me. 
And  the  afterwards,  too,  was  terrible,  when  I'd  lost 
health  and  looks  and  spirits,  and  the  doctor  told  me  I 
must  never  dance  again.  I'd  thought  so  much  of  my 
dancing,  but  I  lost  that,  too.  .  .  . 

"And  the  long  years  I've  lived  here — the  long,  lonely 
evenings  listening  to  the  wind  howling.  Can  you  think 
what  it's  been  to  a  woman  of  my  temperament?  I,  who 
thirsted  for  Life ! ' '  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  '  *  Can 
you  guess  at  my  sufferings  and  temptations?  .  .  .  And 
now  this  last  blow ! ' ' — she  thought  suddenly  of  Helen 's 
stricken  face  as  it  had  turned  from  her  door,  two  days 
ago.  "Hell? — only  a  woman  with  my  history  knows 
what  hell  means ! ' ' 

Godwin  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  rush  forward  and 
seize  her  in  his  arms.  But  Jocelyn's  phrase  recalled 
itself  insidiously:  "A  damned  good  actress!"  He  stiff- 
ened again  and  once  more  moved  towards  the  door.  This 
time  Dolly  let  him  pass. 

"One  more  thing,"  she  said,  wearily.  "Who  told 
yon?" 


DOWNWARD  301 

"It  was  —  Jocelyn!"  he  replied,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"What?— Arthur?  Not  Arthur  Jocelyn ?  I  told  him 
in  the  greatest  confidence — he  swore  to  keep  my  secret ! ' ' 

"Well,  he  thought  he  owed  it  to  me  as  a  friend." 

Dolly  was  bewildered.  Her  words  came  breathlessly: 
' '  But  I  was  his  friend,  too !  Did  he  owe  me  nothing  ? ' ' 

"Men — stand  by  each  other." 

' '  Ah,  your  code  again  —  your  splendid  code ! ' '  she 
cried,  fiercely.  "Oh,  I'm  glad  I'm  a  woman!  I'd  rather 
be  a  fallen  woman  even  than  such  a  man  as  you  or 
Arthur!" 

The  door  was  shut — Dolly  was  alone.  She  sat  down 
very  slowly,  repeating  to  herself :  ' '  He  was  my  friend — 
I  trusted  him." 

And  a  voice  in  her  heart  whispered :  "Helen  was  your 
friend — Helen  trusted  you." 

The  front  door  banged.  Dolly  realized  that  Godwin 
Leigh  and  all  that  he  stood  for  was  passing  out  of  her 
life.  She  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  ran  out  into  the  hall. 
The  dream  of  marriage  had  been  so  dear  to  her,  it  was 
difficult  to  believe  it  had  ended.  For  a  second  she 
wached  the  tall  figure  striding,  with  bowed  head,  along 
the  road ;  then,  turning  sharply,  blinded  with  her  tears, 
she  stumbled  to  the  hearth  and  fell  on  her  knees,  a 
huddled  heap  of  woe. 

"Oh,  Dacre— come  to  me!"  she  sobbed,  "I  can't  bear 
any  more." 

In  the  kitchen  old  Elizabeth  listened  to  her  lady's 
sobs  with  a  face  puckered  with  anxiety.  She  would  have 
liked  to  have  cried  herself,  but  that  wasn't  her  way.  At 
last  she  took  from  the  dresser  drawer  a  worn  little 
leather  writing-case  and  drew  from  it  a  sealed  envelope, 
on  which  was  written,  in  Dacre  Hamilton's  writing: 
"To  be  sent  if  Mrs.  Faithfull  should  be  in  any  grave 
trouble."  Inside  was  a  stamped  telegraph  form,  ad- 


309  DOWNWARD 

dressed  to  the  lawyer's  partner  at  the  firm's  London 
offices.  It  contained  only  five  other  words:  "Wire 
Hamilton  come  Wylton  Elizabeth." 

The  old  dame  smoothed  it  out  thoughtfully. 

"I  expect  this  was  the  kind  of  thing  he  meant,"  she 
muttered.  "The  time's  come,  I  don't  misdoubt.  That 
there  starchy  clothes-pole  have  given  her  the  go-by,  sure 
enough,  and  it'll  do  her  good  to  meet  a  real  man  again, 
if  nothing  else  comes  of  it.  There !  I  shall  lose  a  day  on 
account  of  this  dratted  day-of-rest.  Well,  it  can't  be 
helped — and  now  to  make  that  poor,  dear  lamb  a  nice 
cup  of  tea." 


XVI 

AFTER  an  extraordinary  cross-country  journey  round 
the  coast  from  Folkestone  to  Skarne,  which  took  twice 
as  long  as  the  crossing  from  Boulogne,  Dacre  Hamilton 
arrived  at  "Good  Hope"  late  on  Wednesday  evening. 
A  telegram  from  Folkestone  had  warned  Dolly  of  hia 
arrival,  and  for  once  he  had  consented  to  let  her  put 
him  up  for  the  night. 

After  a  late  supper,  when  the  secret  of  his  sudden 
appearance  had  been  explained,  they  settled  down  by  the 
fire  in  the  little  drawing-room,  and  slowly  and  painfully 
Dolly  told  him  what  had  been  happening.  He  had  said 
very  little,  but  his  presence  alone  was  a  deep  comfort  to 
her,  and  as  she  looked  at  the  fine,  clean-cut  face,  with  its 
lines  of  thought  and  deep,  kindly  eyes,  a  sense  of  peace 
stole  at  last  upon  her  troubled  spirit. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  you  hadn't 
suddenly  come  like  an  angel  from  Heaven,"  she  said. 
' '  This  morning,  when  I  woke  up  and  remembered  again, 
I  felt  like  dying  of  despair,  the  blank  was  so  awful — but 
you've  changed  it  all.  What  made  you  give  Elizabeth 
those  directions  so  many  months  ago?" 

"I  knew  you  would  never  dream  of  fetching  me  across 
half  Europe,  no  matter  how  much  you  needed  me,  and  I 
didn't  want  you  to  be  in  need,  that's  all.  There's  not 
much  that  escapes  the  Priceless  One's  eye;  I  knew  I 
could  rely  on  her  to  summon  me  if  you  really 
wanted  me." 

"But,  my  dear  friend,  I've  wanted  you  frightfully  all 
the  time!  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  missed  you." 

"It  was  to  hear  you  say  that,  child,  that  I  went  away. 
I  didn't  mean  to  speak  just  yet,  but  I  must.  .  .  .  Dolly, 
303 


804  DOWNWARD 

don't  you  think  it's  time  you  came  to  me  at  last  and  let 
me  take  care  of  you  and  Keddy  for  always?" 

' '  Oh,  Dacre,  don 't — don 't !    I  've  suffered  enough ! ' ' 

"Ah,  I'm  too  old  and  grey,  of  course;  I  might  have 
known  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world  wouldn't 
have  me." 

"Grey — what  nonsense!  You've  only  got  about  ten 
grey  hairs,  and  I  adore  them  all.  If  you  only  knew  what 
it  means — the  haven  you  offer  me — but  I've  some  pride 
left,  and  I  can't — can't  be  married  out  of  pity." 

"Well,  I  can,  and  I've  certainly  no  pride  where 
Dolly's  concerned.  Marry  me  out  of  pity,  child,  just 
because  you're  sorry  for  an  old  fool,  who  found  out  too 
late  how  dearly  he  loved  you  and  has  been  ass  enough 
to  waste  four  years  more  in  the  hope  you'd  get  to  tol- 
erate him." 

' '  Dacre !  Is  it  really  true  ?  Can  it  be  true  1  No,  no,  I 
can't  listen;  you're  only  doing  it  because  you're  sorry 
for  me.  If  you  had  really  cared,  you  wouldn't  have  gone 
away  for  so  long." 

"Can't  the  dense  child  understand  that  the  poor 
Solicitor-Slave  went  on  purpose  to  make  her  miss  him, 
to  make  her  find  out  just  what  he  meant  in  her  life,  if 
anything  ? ' ' 

"Is  that  really  true?" 

"The  Slave  swears  it." 

"Is  that  why  he  wrote  so  very  seldom?" 

"That's  why  he  stinged  in  stamps!" 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  they  looked  deeply 
into  one  another's  eyes.  Then  Dolly  spoke. 

"Dacre,  dear,  my  kind,  true  friend,  I  can't  imagine 
anything  more  perfect  than  to  stay  with  you  always — 
I've  told  Cliff  so  scores  of  times.  I  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  accepting  Godwin  if  I'd  thought  you  cared 
for  me  in  that  way,  but  I  never  could  believe  you  did, 
and  in  any  case  I  can't  let  you  marry  me  now  I  know 
that  other  men  regard  me  as  ...  unfit  for  wifehood." 

Dacre  took  her4  right  hand  and  placed  it  against  his 
heart,  covering  it  with  both  his  own. 


DOWNWARD  805 

"Listen,  little  Dolly,"  he  said,  very  solemnly;  "to  me 
you're  still  the  little  golden-haired  girl  who  came  to  me 
in  trouble  fifteen  years  ago.  Ever  since  then  you've 
brought  most  of  your  troubles  to  me,  and  I've  tried  to 
help,  but  not  very  successfully,  since  the  only  real  way 
to  help  is  to  share.  I  know  your  remorse  and  your  sor- 
rows— I  want  to  share  them.  I  know  your  wounds — I 
want  to  heal  them.  I  know  your  long  and  bitter  atone- 
ment— I  want  it  ended  and  forgotten.  Only  one  thing 
will  blot  out  your  grief  and  the  awful  hurt  men  have 
done  to  your  soul,  and  that's  love!  Little  Dolly,  I  love 
you — commonplace  words,  but  the  most  misunderstood 
in  the  world.  I've  seen  so  much  of  the  sad  hearts  of 
men  and  women  that  I've  learnt  to  know  something  of 
what  love  means.  Come  to  me,  dear,  and  let  me  show 
you." 

For  the  first  time  he  kissed  her  lips.  .  .  . 

"I  love  you,  too,  Dacre,"  whispered  Dolly;  "there's 
nobody  like  you !  But  what  can  I  do  for  you  in  return 
for  all  you  do  for  me?" 

"Ah,  how  can  you  ask  such  a  question? — you  who 
can  give  me  joys  I've  never  dreamed  of — you  who  give 
me  your  lovely,  young  life,  the  riches  of  your  beautiful, 
warm  woman's  heart?  Think  how  cold  I've  been  all 
these  years  with  nothing  but  my  work!  You  put  fire, 
youth,  joy  into  my  life — the  debt  is  all  on  my  side, 
believe  me,  my  girl  of  girls ! ' ' 

"And  Keddy?"  said  Dolly,  wistfully. 

"D'you  think  my  heart's  so  small  it  can't  find  room 
for  a  little  microbe  of  a  man-child  not  a  yard  long? 
Why,  of  course  I  want  him  too;  we  couldn't  get  on 
without  our  boy." 

At  the  word  "our"  Dolly  clung  to  him  rapturously. 
"Dacre,  you're  an  angel!"  she  said.  "That's  not  the 
word,  but  I  can't  find  a  better.  When  I  think  of  other 
men  I've  known — Theo,  my  father,  Colin  Lester,  Gallo- 
way, Jocelyn,  Godwin  Leigh — why,  I  can  hardly  believe 
you're  a  man  at  all!" 

"  It 's  a  doubtful  compliment,  but  I  'm  out  for  all  I  can 


306  DOWNWARD 

get  to-night.  Superman,  perhaps?  Well,  I  decline  the 
role — I  prefer  that  of  Solicitor-Slave  prior  to  merging  it 
in  the  jealous,  masterful,  iron- willed  Husband." 

Dolly  laughed  deliciously.  "Laugh  again,  my  Dolly!" 
said  Dacre,  in  delight;  "I  want  you  to  laugh  for  hours 
daily  till  the  corners  of  your  mouth  are  turned  up  the 
right  way  again.  "Well,  where  were  we?  ...  I  can  as- 
sure you  I  am  a  man,  but  it's  lucky  for  me  you've  only 
met  such  a  low  lot  of  thorough  scoundrels.  In  compari- 
son with  them  even  a  very  ordinary  thief  of  a  lawyer 
must  necessarily  shine  out  as  a  demi-god ! ' ' 

"Godwin  wasn't  a  scoundrel;  every  one  would  call 
him  a  white  man." 

"Only  a  half-caste,  my  dear.  If  he  uttered  all  the 
things  you've  repeated  to  me,  he  must  be  a  precious 
poor  stick  of  a  man.  Inside,  he's  only  got  a  dried  valve 
instead  of  a  heart." 

"I'd  no  idea  you  were  such  a  frivolous,  talkative 
person,  Dacre — I've  never  seen  you  like  this  before." 

"Ah,  you've  never  seen  me  just  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried! But  I  shall  tone  down  soon — the  wise  husband 
rarely  talks;  but,  by  the  way,  d'you  realize  that  the 
Solicitor- Slave  and  Superman,  the  Lawyer-Thief -cum- 
Demi-God,  is  still  patiently  waiting  to  be  accepted?" 

"You'll  never  be  ashamed  of  the  boy?"  whispered 
Dolly. 

' '  Never,  dear — why  should  I  ?  A  little  child  is  a  little 
child,  and  this  one 's  yours.  He  shall  have  my  name  and 
be  my  son — our  eldest  son,  Dolly." 

Dolly  hid  her  blush  against  his  shoulder  with  a  sigh 
of  utter  content. 

Presently  they  began  to  make  plans.  "I  arranged 
with  my  partners  to  take  six  months'  holiday,"  Dacre 
told  her.  ' '  I  hadn  't  had  a  proper  one  for  ten  years,  and 
I  realized  it  was  then  or  never.  Two  months  are  left 
still:  the  Riviera  season  is  not  done  yet,  and  what  my 
girl  needs  is  gaiety.  What  do  you  say  to  a  few  days  in 
London  to  get  some  smart  gowns,  then  back  here  to  pick 


DOWNWARD  307 

up  Keddy  and  Elizabeth,  and  then  off  to  the  cote- 
d'azurf" 

"Oh!  how  glorious  that  would  be!  But  even  you 
don't  want  to  take  a  child  and  an  old  woman  on  your 
honeymoon." 

"Certainly  I  do — I  refuse  to  be  parted  from  Eliza- 
beth. I M  rather  leave  you  behind !  It'll  be  the  time  of 
her  life,  once  she's  recovered  from  the  journey,  and 
Keds  will  be  in  the  seventh  heaven.  He  can  protect  her 
from  the  amorous  advances  of  the  Latin  nations,  whilst 
you  and  I  wander  in  the  orange  groves  or  waste  our 
substance  in  the  Rooms.  And  sometimes  we'll  go  excur- 
sions up  the  hills;  you  can  ride  a  donkey,  and  we'll  find 
an  immense  mule  for  the  Priceless  One  and  a  small  asslet 
for  the  Man-child.  The  Slave  will  walk.  Is  it  a 
bargain  t" 

"Shall  I  wake  up  and  find  it's  a  dream?"  was  Dolly's 
answer. 

"And  now  we  must  turn  in,  as  I  shall  have  a  very  full 
day  to-morrow.  Fortunately  it  doesn't  take  long  to  get 
a  special  license." 

"Oh,  Dacre— so  soon?" 

"  I  'm  forty-five,  sweetheart ! ' ' 

Dolly  kissed  him  charmingly.  "To-night  you're  only 
about  twenty-two,"  she  murmured. 

"I'll  catch  the  nine-thirteen  express  and  get  back 
here  in  time  for  dinner.  Engage  a  room  for  me  some- 
where, will  you?  The  day  after  to-morrow  we'll  be 
married  in  Skarne  Church  by  the  vicar,  that  nice  old 
chap  who  christened  Keddy.  I'll  give  him  a  call  on  my 
way  to  the  station.  Not  a  soul  but  ourselves  in  the 
church,  except  Cliff  and  the  boy  —  and  Elizabeth,  of 
course — I'd  rather  leave  the  bride  out  than  that  ador- 
able woman!  If  possible,  I'll  bring  Cliff  back  with  me 
to-morrow  night.  It  wouldn't  be  legal  without  her, 
would  it?  You  consent?  Heaven  bless  you!" 

"I'm  entirely  in  the  hands  of  my  solicitor." 

"Good — and  there  you  shall  stay,  madam!  We'll 
catch  the  twelve  o'clock  train  up  after  our  wedding, 


308  DOWNWARD 

yes  ?  and  for  six  solid  days  you  shall  shop  madly,  without 
interruption,  the  Slave  merely  existing  to  carry  parcels 
from  place  to  place.  And  if  you're  sure  you  can  get 
your  gowns  done  in  time,  I'll  book  four  berths  in  the 
luxe-rapide  for  Saturday  week.  Agreed?" 

"Are  you  sure  I  shan't  wake  up  soon?"  asked  Dolly, 
ecstatically.  Dacre  continued  with  a  sudden  change  of 
voice:  "There's  one  person  I  must  see  on  my  return 
to-morrow  afternoon,  or  before  we're  married  next  day, 
and  that's— Mrs.  Walter." 

"Oh,  Dacre,  if  you  only  would!  If  any  one  can  help 
her  you  can.  I  shan't  be  happy  even  on  my  honeymoon 
unless  I  can  take  away  very  different  thoughts  of  her." 

"I'll  do  my  utmost.  One  thing  more — can  you  tell 
me  where  there's  a  saddler's  or  harness-maker's  in 
Skarne,  near  the  station,  if  possible?  It'll  save  time 
the  other  end  if  I  buy  a  horse- whip  before  starting." 

"What  on  earth  for?" 

"For  Arthur  Jocelyn,"  said  Dacre,  grimly. 

And  "Won't  Bognor  be  pleased!"  was  Keddy's  de- 
lighted comment  when  his  mother  told  him  the  wonder- 
ful news  at  five-thirty  next  morning,  holding  him  tight 
in  her  arms. 


AFTER  THE  HONEYMOON- WHAT? 
Read  the  Surprising  New  Nove/, 

'The  Indiscretion 
of  Lady  Usher 

and  learn  'what  happens  to  one  'woman. 


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FAMOUS   BOOKS  BY 
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THE  DANGEROUS  AGE,  by  Karin  Michaelis 

Here  is  a  woman's  soul  laid  bare  with  absolute  frankness. 
Europe  went  mad  about  the  book,  which  has  been  translated  into 
twelve  languages.  It  betrays  the  freemasonry  of  womanhood. 

MY   ACTOR   HUSBAND,   Anonymous 

The  reader  will  be  startled  by  the  amazing  truths  set  forth  and 
the  completeness  of  their  revelations.  Life  behind  the  scenes  is 
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attracts  should  read  this  story.  There  is  a  ringing  damnation  in  it. 

MRS.  DRUMMOND'S  VOCATION,  by  Mark  Ryce 

Lily  Drummond  is  an  unmoral  (not  immoral)  heroine.  She  was 
not  a  bad  girl  at  heart;  but  when  chance  opened  up  for  her  the  view 
of  a  life  she  had  never  known  or  dreamed  of,  her  absence  of  moral 
responsibility  did  the  rest. 

DOWNWARD:  "A  Slice  of  Life,"  by  Maud  Churton  Braby 

AUTHOR  OF  "MODERN  MARRIAGE  AND  How  TO  BEAR  IT" 
"  'Downward'  belongs  to  that  great  modern  school   of  fiction  built 
upon   woman's   downfall.      *     *      *      I    cordially   commend   this   bit   of 
fiction  to  the  thousands  of  young  women  who  are  yearning  to  see  what 
they  call  'life.'  "—James  L.  Ford  in  the  N.   Y.  Herald. 

TWO  APACHES  OF  PARIS,  by  Alice  and  Claude  Askew 

AUTHORS  OF  "THE  SHULAMITE,"  "THE  ROD  OF  JUSTICE,"  ETC. 

All  primal  struggles  originate  with  the   daughters  of  Eve. 

This  story  of  Paris  and  London  tells  of  the  wild,  fierce  life  of  the 
flesh,  of  a  woman  with  the  beauty  of  consummate  vice  to  whom  a  man 
gave  himself,  body  and  soul. 

THE  VISITS  OF  ELIZABETH,  by  Elinor  Glyn 

One  of  Mrs.  Glyn's  biggest  successes.  Elizabeth  is  a  charming 
young  woman  who  is  always  saying  and  doing  droll  and  daring  things, 
both  shocking  and  amusing. 

BEYOND  THE  ROCKS,  by  Elinor  Glyn 

"One  of  Mrs.  Glyn's  highly  sensational  and  somewhat  erotic 
novels." — Boston  Transcript. 

The  scenes  are  laid  in  Paris  and  London;  and  a  country-house 
party  also  figures,  affording  the  author  some  daring  situations,  which 
she  has  handled  deftly. 

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FAMOUS   BOOKS   BY 
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THE  REFLECTIONS  OF  AMBROSINE,  by  Elinor  Glyn 

The  story  of  the  awakening  of  a  young  girl,  whose  maidenly 
emotions  are  set  forth  as  Elinor  Glyn  alone  knows  how. 

"Gratitude  and  power  and  self-control!  *  *  *  in  nature  I  find 
there  is  a  stronger  force  than  all  these  things,  and  that  is  the  touch 
of  the  one  we  love." — Ambrosine. 

THE  VICISSITUDES   OF   EVANGELINE,  by  Elinor 
*  Glyn 

"One  of  Mrs.  Glyn's  most  pungent  tales  of  feminine  idisoyncrasy 
and  caprice." — Boston  Transcript. 

Evangeline  is  a  delightful  heroine  with  glorious  red  hair  and  amaz- 
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ONE  DAY:  A  Sequel  to  Three  Weeks 

"There  is  a  note  of  sincerity  in  this  book  that  is  lacking  in  the 
first." — Boston  Globe. 

"One  Day"  is  the  sequel  you  have  been  waiting  for  since  reading 
"Three  Weeks,"  and  is  a  story  which  points  a  moral,  a  clear,  well- 
written  exposition  of  the  doctrine,  "As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye  reap." 

HIGH  NOON:  A  New  Sequel  to  Three  Weeks 

A  Modern  Romeo  and  Juliet 

A  powerful,  stirring  love-story  of  twenty  years  after.  Abounding 
in  beautiful  descriptions  and  delicate  pathos,  this  charming  love  idyl 
will  instantly  appeal  to  the  million  and  a  quarter  people  who  have  read 
and  enjoyed  "Three  Weeks." 

THE  DIARY  OF  MY  HONEYMOON 

A  woman  who  sets  out  to  unburden  her  soul  upon  intimate  things 
is  bound  to  touch  upon  happenings  which  are  seldom  the  subject  of 
writing  at  all;  but  whatever  may  be  said  of  the  views  of  the  anonymous 
author,  the  "Diary"  is  a  work  of  throbbing  and  intense  humanity,  the 
moral  of  which  is  sound  throughout  and  plain  to  see. 

SIMPLY  WOMEN,  by  Marcel  Prevost 

"Like  a  motor-car  or  an  old-fashioned  razor,  this  book  should  be 
in  the  hands  of  mature  persons  only." — St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch. 

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analysis  of  the  souls  and  bodies  of  a  type  half  virgin  and  half  courtesan, 
is  now  available  in  a  volume  of  selections  admirably  translated  by  R.  I. 
Brandon- Vauvillez."—6'an  Francisco  Chronicle. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  NICE  YOUNG  MAN,  by 

AiX  Joseph  and  Potiphar's  Wife  Up-to-Date 

A  handsome  young  man,  employed  as  a  lady's  private  secretary, 
is  bound  to  meet  with  interesting  adventures. 

"Under  a  thin  veil  the  story  unquestionably  sets  forth  actual 
episodes  and  conditions  in  metropolitan  circles." — Washington  Star. 

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